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B  Y  THE  SAME  A  UTHOR. 

Wych  Hazel.     i2mo,  cloth  .        .        .        .    -    .      $2  oo 

"  The  whole  structure  of  the  story  is  symmetrical  and  harmonious — 
one  of  the  best  written  and  most  entertaining  recently  sent  us  by  anj> 
of  the  favorites  of  the  novel-reading  public." — Albany  Journal. 

The  Gold  of  Chickaree.    12010,  cloth     .        .  $i  75 

"  We  have  not  the  faintest  hesitation  in  placing  this  work  among 
the  very  strongest  novels  in  character  development  which  has  been 
written  during  the  past  two  years."— Boston  Traveler. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  Publishers,  N.  Y. 


DIANA 


BY 
SUSAN    WARNER 

AUTHOR  OF  "WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD" — CO-AUTHOR  OF  "WYCH 
HAZEL,"  "THE  GOLD  OF  CHICKAREE,"  ETC. 


'  Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  fearest ; 
Round  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 
Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

4  What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day, 

And  the  end  He  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

Thy  spirit  goeth." 

WHITTIE 


NEW     YORK 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

182    FIFTH   AVENUE 
1877 


Copyright. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS. 
1877. 


PS 
3/55 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SEWING  SOCIETY i 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  NEW  MINISTER 16 

CHAPTER  III. 

HARNESSING  PRINCE 33 

CHAPTER  IV. 

MOTHER  BARTLETT 44 

CHAPTER  V. 

MAKING  HAY 55 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  KNOWLTON'S  FISH 65 

CHAPTER  VII. 

BELLES  AND  BLACKBERRIES 80 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  NEW  RICHES  OF  THE  OLD  WORLD  ...      95 


1.592782 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGB. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

MRS  STARLING'S  OPINIONS 112 

CHAPTER  X. 

IN  SUGAR 121 

CHAPTER  XL 

A  STORM  IN  SEPTEMBER 130 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  ASHES  OF  THE  FIRE 141 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

FROM  THE  POST  OFFICE 148 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  MEETING  AT  ELMFIELD 157 

CHAPTER  XV. 
CATECHISING 171 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Is  IT  WELL  WITH  THEE? 185 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  USE  OF  LIVING 199 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
A  SNOWSTORM 212 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
OUT  OF  HUMDRUM 224 


CONTENTS. 

V 

PAGE. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

SETTLED 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

UNSETTLED 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

NEW  LIFE 

262 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SUPPER  AT 

HOME    . 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE 281 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
Miss  COLLINS'  WORK 295 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
THINGS  UNDONE      .        .        .  .        .        .    306 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
BONDS 322 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
EVAN'S  SISTER 333 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 345 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
SUNSHINE 354 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
A  JUNE  DAY .        .    367 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGB. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WIND  AND  TIDE      .  ....    384 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BUDS  AND  BLOSSOMS 405 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

DAIRY  AND  PARISH  WORK 423 

CHAPTER  XXXV 
BABYLON 431 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
THE  PARTY 440 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
AT  ONE 450 


DIANA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SEWING  SOCIETY. 

I  AM  thinking  of  a  little  brown  house,  somewhere  in  the 
wilds  of  New  England.  I  wish  I  could  make  my  readers 
see  it  as  it  was,  one  June  afternoon  some  years  ago.  Not 
for  anything  very  remarkable  about  it  ;  there  are  thou- 
sands of  such  houses  scattered  among  our  hills  and  valleys; 
nevertheless  one  understands  any  life  story  the  better  for 
knowing  amid  what  sort  of  scenes  it  was  unfolded.  More- 
over, such  a  place  is  one  of  the  pleasant  things  in  the  world 
to  look  at,  as  I  judge.  This  was  a  small  house,  with  its 
gable  end  to  the  road,  and  a  lean-to  at  the  back,  over  which 
the  long  roof  sloped  down  picturesquely.  It  was  weather- 
painted  ;  that  was  all  ;  of  a  soft  dark  grey  now,  that  har- 
monized well  enough  with  the  gayer  colours  of  meadows 
and  trees.  And  two  superb  elms,  of  New  England's  own, 
stood  beside  it  an-d  hung  over  it ;  enfolding  and  sheltering 
the  little  old  house,  as  it  were,  with  their  arms  of  strength 
and  beauty.  Those  trees  would  have  dignified  anything. 
One  of  them,  of  the  more  rare  weeping  variety,  drooped 
over  the  door  of  the  lean-to,  shading  it  protectingly  and 
hiding  with  its  long  pendent  branches  the  hard  and  stiff 
lines  of  the  building.  So  the  green  draped  the  grey  ; 


2  DIANA. 

until  in  the  soft  mingling  of  hues,  the  light  play  of  sun- 
shine and  shadow,  it  seemed  as  if  the  smartness  of  paint 
upon  the  old  weather-boarding  would  have  been  an  intru- 
sion, and  not  an  advantage.  In  front  of  the  house  was  a 
little  space  given  to  flowers  ;  at  least  there  were  some 
irregular  patches  and  borders,  where  balsams  and  holly- 
hocks and  pinks  and  marigolds  made  a  spot  of  light  colour- 
ing ;  with  one  or  two  luxuriantly  growing  blush  roses, 
untrained  and  wandering,  bearing  a  wealth  of  sweetness 
on  their  long  swaying  branches.  There  was  that  spot  of 
colour  ;  all  around  and  beyond  lay  meadows,  orchards  and 
cultivated  fields  ;  till  at  no  great  distance  the  ground  became 
broken  and  rose  into  a  wilderness  of  hills,  mounting  high- 
er and  higher.  In  spots  these  also  shewed  cultivation ;  for 
the  most  part  they  were  covered  with  green  woods  in  the 
depth  of  June  foliage.  The  soft,  varied  hilly  outline  filled 
the  whole  circuit  of  the  horizon  ;  within  the  nearer  circuit 
of  the  hills  the  little  grey  house  sat  alone,  with  only  one 
single  exception.  At  the  edge  of  the  meadow  land,  half 
hid  behind  the  spur  of  a  hill,  stood  another  grey  farmhouse  ; 
it  might  have  been  half  a  mile  off.  People  accustomed  to 
a  more  densely  populated  country  would  call  the  situation 
lonesome  ;  solitary  it  was.  But  Nature  had  shaken  down 
her  hand  full  of  treasures  over  the  place.  Art  had  never 
so  much  as  looked  that  way.  However,  we  can  do  with- 
out art  on  a  June  afternoon. 

The  door  of  the  lean-to  looked  towards  the  road,  and 
so  made  a  kind  of  front  door  to  the  kitchen  which  was  with- 
in. The  door-sill  was  raised  a  single  step  above  the  rough 
old  grey  stone  which  did  duty  before  it ;  and  sitting  on  the 
doorstep,  in  the  shadow  and  sunlight  which  came  through 
the  elm  branches  and  fell  over  her,  this  June  afternoon, 
was  the  person  whose  life  story  I  am  going  to  try  to  tell, 


THE   SEWING  SOCIETY.  3 

She  sat  there  as  one  at  home,  and  in  the  leisure  of  one 
•who  had  done  her  work  ;  with  arms  crossed  upon  her 
bosom,  and  an  air  of  almost  languid  quiet  upon  her  face. 
The  afternoon  was  quiet-inspiring.  Genial  warm  sunshine 
filled  the  fields  and  grew  hazy  in  the  depth  of  the  hills  ;  the 
long  hanging  elm  branches  were  still ;  sunlight  and  shadow 
beneath  slept  in  each  other's  arms  ;  soft  breaths  of  air  too 
faint  to  move  the  elms,  came  nevertheless  with  reminders 
and  suggestions  of  all  sorts  of  sweetness  ;  from  the  leaf- 
buds  of  the  woods,  from  the  fresh  turf  of  the  meadows, 
from  a  thousand  hidden  flowers  and  ferns  at  work  in  their 
secret  laboratories,  distilling  a  thousand  perfumes,  mingled* 
and  untraceable.  Now  and  then  the  breath  of  the  roses 
was  quite  distinguishable  ;  and  from  fields  further  off  the 
delicious  scent  of  new  hay.  It  was  just  the  time  of  day 
when  the  birds  do  not  sing  ;  and  the  watcher  at  the  door 
seemed  to  be  in  their  condition. 

She  was  a  young  woman,  full  grown,  but  young.  Her 
dress  was  the  common  print  working  dress  of  a  farmer's 
daughter,  with  a  spot  or  two  of  wet  upon  her  apron  shew- 
ing that  she  had  been  busy  as  her  dress  suggested.  Her 
sleeves  were  still  rolled  up  above  her  elbows,  leaving  the 
crossed  arms  full  in  view.  And  if  there  is  character  in 
faces,  so  there  is  in  arms  ;  and  everybody  knows  there  is 
in  hands.  These  arms  were  after  the  model  of  the  typical 
woman's  arm  ;  not  chubby  and  round  and  fat,  but  moulded 
with  beautiful  contour,  shewing  muscular  form  and  power, 
with  the  blue  veins  here  and  there  marking  the  clear 
delicate  skin.  Only  look  at  the  arm,  without  even  seeing 
the  face,  and  you  would  feel  there  was  nervous  energy  and 
power  of  will ;  no  weak,  flabby,  undecided  action  would 
ever  come  of  it.  The  wrist  was  tapering  enough,  and  the 
hand  perfectly  shaped,  like  the  arm ;  not  quite  so  white. 


4  DIANA. 

The  face, — you  could  not  read  it  at  once  ;  possibly  not 
till  it  had  seen  a  few  more  years.  It  was  very  reposeful 
this  afternoon.  Yet  the  brow  and  the  head  bore  tokens 
of  the  power  you  would  expect ;  they  were  very  fine  ;  and 
the  eyes  under  the  straight  brow  were  full  and  beautiful, 
a  deep  blue-grey,  changing  and  darkening  at  times.  But 
the  mouth  and  lower  part  of  the  face  was  as  sweet  and 
mobile  as  three  years  old ;  playing  as  innocently  and  readily 
upon  every  occasion  ;  nothing  had  fixed  those  lovely  lines. 
The  combination  made  it  a  singular  face  and  of  course 
very  handsome.  But  it  looked  very  unconscious  of  that 
'  fact. 

Within  the  kitchen  another  woman  was  stepping  about 
actively,  and  now  and  then  cast  an  unsatisfied  look  at  the 
doorway.  Finally  came  to  a  stop  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  to  speak. 

'  What  are  you  sittin'  there  for,  Diana  ? 

'  Nothing,  that  I  know  of.' 

'  If  I  was  sittin'  there  for  nothin',  seems  to  me  I'd 
get  up  and  go  somewheres  else.' 

'  Where  ? '  said  the  beauty  languidly. 

'  Anywhere.  Goodness  !  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  nothin' 
would  ever  get  done,  to  see  you  sittin'  there  so.' 

'  It's  all  done,  mother.' 

'What?' 

'  Everything.' 

'  Have  you  got  out  the  pink  china  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Is  your  cake  made  ? ' 

'  Yes,  mother  ;  you  saw  me  do  it.' 

'  I  didn't  see  you  bakin'  it  though.' 

'  Well,  it  is  done.' 

4  Did  it  raise  light  and  puffy  ? ' 


THE   SEWING   SOCIETY.  5 

'  Beautiful.' 

'  And  didn't  get  burned  ? ' 

'  Only  the  least  bit,  in  the  corner.     No  harm/ 

'  Have  you  cut  the  cheese  and  shivered  the  beef  ? ' 

'  All  done.' 

'  Then  I  think  you  had  better  go  and  dress  yourself.' 

'  There's  plenty  of  time.  Nobody  can  be  here  for  two 
hours  yet.' 

1 1  wouldn't  sit  and  do  nothin',  if  I  was  you.' 

*  Why  not,  mother  ?  when  there  is  really  nothing  to  do.' 

'  I  don't  believe  in  no  such  minutes,  for  my  part.  They 
never  come  to  me.  Look  at  what  I've  done  to-day,  now. 
There  was  first  the  lighting  the  fire  and  getting  breakfast. 
Then  I  washed  up,  and  righted  the  kitchen  and  set  on  the 
dinner.  Then  I  churned  and  brought  the  butter  and 
worked  that.  Then  there  was  the  dairy  things.  Then  I've 
been  in  the  garden  and  picked  four  quarts  of  ifs  and  ons 
for  pickles  ;  got  'em  all  down  in  brine  too.  Then  I  made 
out  my  bread,  and  made  biscuits  for  tea,  and  got  dinner, 
and  eat  it,  and  cleared  it  away,  and  boiled  a  ham.' 

'  Not  since  dinner,  mother  ? ' 

'  Took  it  out,  and  that ; — and  got  all  my  pots  and  kettles 
put  away;  and  picked  over  all  that  lot  o'  berries,  /think 
I'd  make  preserves  of  'em,  Diana  ;  when  folks  come  to 
sewing  meeting  for  the  missionaries,  they  needn't  have  all 
creation  to  eat,  seems  to  me.  They  don't  sew  no  better 
for  it.  /believe  in  fasting,  once  in  a  while.' 

'  What  for  ? ' 

'  What  for  ?  why,  to  keep  down  people's  stomach ; 
take  off  a  slice  of  their  pride.' 

'  Mother !  do  you  think  eating  and  people's  pride  have 
anything  to  do  with  each  other  ? ' 

'  I  guess  I  do  !  I  tell  you,  fasting  is  as  good  as  whipping 


6  DIANA. 

to  take  down  a  child's  stomach ;  let  'em  get  real  thin  and 
empty,  and  they'll  come  down  and  be  as  meek  as  Moses. 
Folks  ain't  different  from  children.' 

'  You  never  tried  that  with  me,  mother,'  said  Diana 
half  laughing. 

'Your  father  always  let  you  have  your  own  way.  I 
could  ha'  managed  you,  I  guess  ;  but  your  father  and  you 
was  too  much  at  once.  Come,  Diana — do  get  up  and  go 
off  and  get  dressed,  or  something.' 

But  she  sat  still,  letting  the  soft  June  air  woo  her  and 
the  scents  of  flower  and  field  hold  some  subtle  communion 
with  her.  There  was  a  certain  hidden  harmony  between 
her  and  them;  and  yet  they  stirred  her  somehow  un- 
easily. 

'  I  wonder,'  she  said  after  a  few  minutes'  silence, '  what 
a  nobleman's  park  is  like  ? ' 

The  mother  stood  still  again  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen. 

1 A  park  ! ' 

'  Yes.  It  must  be  something  beautiful ;  and  yet  I  can- 
not think  how  it  could  be  prettier  than  this.' 

'  Than  what  ? '  said  her  mother  impatiently. 

'  Just  all  this.  All  this  country  ;  and  the  hayfields,  and 
the  cornfields,  and  the  hills.' 

'  A  park  ! '  her  mother  repeated.  '  I  saw  a  "  park  " 
once,  when  I  was  down  to  New  York  ;  you  wouldn't  want 
to  see  it  twice.  A  homely  little  mite  of  a  green  yard,  with 
a  big  white  house  in  the  middle  of  it ;  and  homely  enough 
that  was  too.  It  might  do  very  well  for  the  city  folks ; 
but  the  land  knows  I'd  be  sorry  enough  to  live  there. 
What's  putting  parks  in  your  head  ? ' 

But  the  daughter  did  not  answer,  and  the  mother  stood 
still  and  looked  at  her,  with  perhaps  an  inscrutable  bit  of 


THE    SEWING    SOCIETY.  7 

pride  and  delight  behind  her  hard  features.  It  never  came 
out. 

'  Diana,  do  you  calculate  to  be  ready  for  the  sewin* 
meetin'  ? ' 

'  Yes,  mother.' 

'  Since  they  must  come,  we  may  as  well  make  'em 
welcome  ;  and  they  won't  think  it,  if  you  meet  'em  in  your 
kitchen  dress.  Is  the  new  minister  comin',  do  you 
s'pose  ? ' 

'I  don't  know  if  anybody  has  told  him.' 

'Somebody  had  ought  to.  It  won't  be  much  of  a 
meetin'  without  the  minister  ;  and  it  'ud  give  him  a  good 
chance  to  get  acquainted.  Mr.  Hardenburgh  used  to  like 
to  come.' 

'  The  new  man  doesn't  look  much  like  Mr.  Harden- 
'burgh.' 

'  It'll  be  a  savin'  in  biscuits,  if  he  ain't.' 

'  I  used  to  like  to  see  Mr.  Hardenburgh  eat,  mother.' 

'  I  hain't  no  objection — when  I  don't  have  the  biscuits 
to  make.  Diana,  you  baked  a  pan  o'  them  biscuits  too 
brown.  Now  you  must  look  out,  when  you  put  'em  to 
warm  up,  or  they'll  be  more'n  crisp.' 

'  Everybody  else  has  them  cold,  mother.' 

'  They  won't  at  my  house.  It's  just  to  save  trouble  ; 
and  there  ain't  a  lazy  hair  in  me,  you  ought  to  know  by 
this  time.' 

'  But  I  thought  you  were  for  taking  down  people's  pride, 
and  keeping  the  sewing  society  low ;  and  here  are  hot  bis- 
cuits and  all  sorts  of  thing,'  said  Diana,  getting  up  from 
her  seat  at  last. 

'The  cream  '11  be  in  the  little  red  pitcher — so  mind 
you  don't  go  and  take  the  green  one.  And  do  be  off, 
child,  and  fix  yourself  •  for  it'll  be  a  while  yet  before  I'm 


8  DIANA. 

ready;  and  there'll  be  nobody  to  see  folks  when  they 
come.' 

Diana  went  off  slowly  up  stairs  to  her  own  room. 
There  were  but  two,  one  on  each  side  of  the  little  landing 
place  at  the  head  of  the  stair ;  and  she  and  her  mother 
divided  the  floor  between  them.  Diana's  room  was  not 
what  one  would  have  expected  from  the  promise  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  house.  That  was  simple  enough,  as  the  dwelling 
of  a  small  farmer  would  be,  and  much  like  the  other  farm- 
houses of  the  region.  But  Diana's  room,  a  little  one  it 
was,  had  one  side  rilled  with  bookshelves  ;  and  on  the 
bookshelves  was  a  dark  array  of  solid  and  ponderous  vol- 
umes. A  table  under  the  front  window  held  one  or  two 
that  were  apparently  in  present  use;  the  rest  of  the  room 
displayed  the  more  usual  fittings  and  surroundings  of  a 
maiden's  life.  Only  in  their  essentials  however  ;  no  luxury 
was  there.  The  little  chest  of  drawers,  covered  with  a 
white  cloth,  held  a  brush  and  comb,  and  supported  a  tiny 
looking-glass ;  small  paraphernalia  of  vanity.  No  essen- 
ces or  perfumes  or  powders  ;  no  curling  sticks  or  crimping 
pins  ;  no  rats  or  cats,  cushions  or  frames,  or  skeletons  of 
any  sort,  were  there  for  the  help  of  the  rustic  beauty  j  and 
neither  did  she  need  them.  So  you  would  have  said  if 
you  had  seen  her  when  her  toilette  was  done.  The  soft 
outlines  of  her  figure  were  neither  helped  nor  hidden  by 
any  artificial  contrivances.  Her  abundant  dark  hair  was 
in  smooth  bands  and  a  luxuriant  coil  at  the  back  of  her 
head  ;  woman's  natural  crown  ;  and  she  looked  nature- 
crowned  when  she  had  finished  her  work.  Just  because 
nature  had  done  so  much  for  her,  and  she  had  let  nature 
alone  ;  and  because,  furthermore,  Diana  did  not  know  or 
at  least  did  not  think  about  her 'beauty.  When  she  was 
in  order,  and  it  did  not  take  long,  she  placed  herself  at  the 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  9 

table  under  the  window  before  noticed,  and  opening  a  book 
that  lay  ready,  forgot  I  dare  say  all  about  the  sewing 
meeting ;  till  the  slow  grating  of  wheels  at  the  gate  brought 
her  back  to  present  realities,  and  she  went  down  stairs. 

There  was  a  little  old  green  wagon  before  the  house, 
with  an  old  horse  and  two  women,  one  of  whom  had  got 
down  and  was  tying  the  horse's  head  to  the  fence. 

'  Are  you  afraid  he  will  run  away  ?  '  said  the  voice  of 
Diana  gayly  from  the  garden. 

'  Massy !  no  ;  but  he  might  hitch  round  somewheres, 
you  know,  and  get  himself  into  trouble.  Thank  ye — I  am 
allays  thankful  and  glad  when  I  get  safe  out  o'  this  wag- 
gin.' 

So  spoke  the  elder  lady,  descending  with  Diana's  help 
and  a  great  deal  of  circumlocution  from  her  perch  in  the 
vehicle.  And  then  they  went  into  the  bright  parlour,  where 
windows  and  doors  stood  open,  and  chairs  had  been 
brought  in,  ready  to  accommodate  all  who  might  come. 

'It's  kind  o' sultry,'  said  the  same  lady,  wiping  her 
face.  'I  declare  these  ellums  o'.yourn  do  cast  an  elegant 
shadder.  It  allays  sort  o'  hampers  me  to  drive,  and  I 
don't  feel  free  till  I  can  let  the  reins  fall ;  that's  how  I  come 
to  be  so  heated.  Dear  me,  you  do  excel  in  notions  ! '  she 
exclaimed,  as  Diana  presented  some  glasses  of  cool  water 
with  raspberry  vinegar.  '  Ain't  that  wonderful  coolin' ! ' 

'  Will  the  minister  come  to  the  meeting,  Diana  ? '  asked 
the  other  woman. 

'  He'd  come,  if  he  knowed  he  could  get  anything  like 
this,'  said  the  other,  smacking  her  lips  and  sipping  her  glass 
slowly.  And  then  came  in  her  hostess. 

If  Mrs.  Starling  was  hard-favoured,  it  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  she  had  a  certain  style  about  her.  Some  ugly 
people  do.  Country  style  no  doubt ;  but  these  things  are 


. 

TO  DIANA. 

relative ;  and  in  a  smart  black  silk,  with  sheer  muslin 
neckerchief  and  a  close-fitting  little  cap,  her  natural  self- 
possession  and  self-assertion  were  very  well  set  off.  Very 
different  from  Diana's  calm  grace  and  simplicity ;  the 
mother  and  daughter  were  alike  in  nothing  beyond  the 
fact  that  each  had  character.  Perhaps  that  is  a  common 
fact  in  such  a  region  and  neighbourhood  ;  for  many  of  the 
ladies  who  now  came  thronging  in  to  the  meeting  looked  as 
if  they  might  justly  lay  claim  to  so  much  praise.  The 
room  filled  up  ;  thimbles  and  housewives  came  out  of 
pockets ;  work  was  produced  from  baskets  and  bags  ;  and 
tongues  went  like  mill-clappers.  They  put  the  June  after- 
noon out  of  countenance.  Mrs.  Barry,  the  good  lady  who 
had  arrived  first,  took  out  her  knitting,  and  in  a  corner 
went  over  to  her  neighbour  all  the  incidents  of  her  drive, 
the  weather,  the  getting  out  of  the  wagon,  the  elm-tree 
shadow,  and  the  raspberry  vinegar.  Mrs.  Carpenter,  a 
well-to-do  farmer's  wife,  gave  the  details  of  her  dairy  mis- 
fortunes and  success  to  her  companion  on  the  next  seat. 
Mrs.  Flandin  discussed  missions.  Mrs.  Bell  told  how 
the  family  of  Mr.  Hardenburgh  had  got  away  on  their 
journey  to  their  new  place  of  abode. 

'  I  always  liked  Mr.  Hardenburgh,'  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter. 

'  He  had  a  real  good  wife,'  remarked  Miss  Gunn,  the 
storekeeper's  sister,  'and  that  goes  a  great  ways.  Mrs. 
Hardenburgh  was  a  right  down  good  woman.' 

'  But  you  was  speakin'  o'  Mr.  Hardenburgh,  the  domi- 
nie,' said  Mrs.  Salter.  '  He  was  a  man  as  there  warn't 
much  harm  in,  I've  allays  said.  'Tain't  a  man's  fault  if  he 
can't  make  his  sermons  interestin',  I  s'pose.' 

'  Mr.  Hardenburgh  preached  real  good  sermons,  now, 
always  seemed  to  me*  rejoined  Mrs.  Carpenter.  '  He 
meant  right ;  that's  what  he  did.' 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  II 

'That's  so/'  chimed  in  Mrs.  Mansfield,  a  rich  farmer 
in  her  own  person. 

'  There  was  an  owl  up  in  one  of  our  elm-trees  one 
night,'  began  Mrs.  Starling . 

'  Du  tell !  so  nigh's  that ! '  said  Mrs.  Barry  from  her 
corner. 

'  And  I  took  up  Josiah's  gun  and  meant  to  shoot  him  ; 
—but  I  didn't.' 

'  He  was  awful  tiresome — there ! '  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Boddington.  'What's  the  use  of  pretendin'  he  warn't? 
Nobody  couldn't  mind  what  his  sermons  was  about;'  I 
don't  believe  as  he  knew  himself.  Now,  a  minister  had 
ought  to  know  what  he  means,  whether  any  one  else  does  or 
not,  and  I  like  a  minister  that  makes  one  know  what  he 
means.' 

'Why  Mrs.  Boddington,'  said  Mrs.  Flandin,  ( I  didn't 
know  as  you  cared  anything  about  religion,  one  way  or 
another.' 

'  I've  got  to  go  to  church,  Mrs.  Flandin  ;  and  I'd  a 
little  rayther  be  kep'  awake  while  I'm  there  without  pinch- 
ing my  fingers.  I'd  prefer  it.' 

'  Why,  has  anybody  got  to  go  to  church,  that  doesn't 
want  to  go  ? '  inquired  Diana.  But  that  was  like  a  shell 
let  off  in  the  midst  of  the  sewing  circle. 

'  Hear  that,  now  ! '  said  Mrs.  Boddington.  '  Ain't  that 
a  rouser  ! '  Mrs.  Boddington  was  a  sort  of  a  cousin,  and 
liked  the  fun  ;  she  lived  in  the  one  farmhouse  in  sight  of 
Mrs.  Starling's. 

'  She  don't  mean  it,'  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

'  Trust  Di  Starling  for  meaning  whatever  she  says,'  re- 
turned the  other.  '  You  and  I  mayn't  understand  it,  but 
that's  all  one,  you  know.' 

'  But  what  do  she  mean  ? '  said  Mrs.  Salter. 


12  DIANA. 

'  Yes,  what's  the  use  o'  havin'  a  church,  ef  folks  ain't 
goin'  to  it  ? '  said  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

1  No,'  said  Diana,  laughing ;  '  I  only  asked  why  any 
one  must  go,  if  he  don't  want  to?  Where's  the  must1}  ' 

'  When  we  had  good  Mr.  Hardenburgh,  for  example,' 
chimed  in  Mrs.  Boddington,  *  who  was  as  loggy  as  he  could 
be ;  good  old  soul !  and  put  us  all  to  sleep,  or  to  wishin' 
we  could.  My  !  hain't  I  eaten  quarts  o'  dill  in  the  course 
o'  the  summer,  trying  to  keep  myself  respectably  awake 
and  considerin'  o'  what  was  goin'  on  !  Di  says,  why  must 
any  one  eat  all  that  dill  that  don't  want  to  ? ' 

'  Cloves  is  better,'  suggested  Miss  Gunn. 

Some  laughed  at  this ;  others  looked  portentously 
grave. 

'It's  just  one  o'  Di's  nonsense  speeches,'  said  her 
mother ;  '  what  they  mean  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  She 
reads  too  many  books  to  be  just  like  other  folks.' 

'  But  the  books  were  written  by  other  folks,  mother.' 

'  La  !  some  sort,  child.     Not  our  sort,  I  guess.' 

'  Hain't  Di  never  learned  her  catechism  ? '  inquired  Mrs. 
Flandin. 

'  Is  there  anything  about  going  to  church  in  it  ? '  asked 
the  girl. 

'  There's  most  all  sorts  o'  good  things  in  it,'  answered 
vaguely  Mrs.  Flandin,  who  was  afraid  of  committing  her- 
self. '  I  thought  Di  might  ha'  learned  there  something 
about  such  a  thing  as  we  call  duty.1 

'That's  so,'  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

'  Just  what  I  am  asking  about,'  said  Di.  '  That's  the 
thing.  Why  is  it  duty,  to  go  to  church  when  one  don't 
want  to  go  ? ' 

'Well  I'm  sure  it  was  time  we  had  a  new  minister, 
said  Mrs  Salter;  'and  I'm  glad  he's  come.  If  he's  no 


THE   SEWING   SOCIETY.  13 

better  than  old  Mr.  Hardenburgh,  it'll  take  us  a  spell 
to  find  it  out ;  and  that'll  b2  so  much  gained.  He  don't 
look  like  him  any  way.' 

'  He  is  different,  ain't  he  ? '  assented  Mrs.  Boddington. 
'  If  we  wanted  a  change,  we've  got  it.  How  did  you  all 
like  his  sermon  last  Sabbath  ? ' 

'  He  was  very  quiet — '  said  Mrs.  Flandin. 

'  I  like  that,'  said  Diana.  '  When  a  man  roars  at  me, 
I  never  can  tell  what  he  is  saying. ' 

'  He  seemed  to  kind  o'  know  his  own  mind,'  said  Mrs. 
Salter. 

'  I  thought  he'd  got  an  astonishin'  knowledge  o'  things 
in  the  town,  for  the  time  he's  had,'  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

'  I  wisht  he  had  a  family,'  remarked  Miss  Gunn  ; '  that's 
all  I've  got  agin  him.  I  think  a  minister  had  allays  ought 
to  have  a  family.' 

'  He  will, — let  him  alone  a  while,'  said  Mrs.  Boddington. 
'  Time  enough.  Wha  have  we  got  in  town  that  would  do 
for  him  ? ' 

The  fruitful  topic  of  debate  and  discussion  here  started, 
lasted  the  ladies  for  some  time.  Talk  and  business  got 
full  under  weigh.  Scissors  and  speeches,  clipping  and 
chattering,  knitting,  and  the  interminable  yarn  of  small 
talk.  The  affairs,  sickness  and  health,  of  every  family  in 
the  neighbourhood,  with  a  large  discussion  of  character  and 
prospects  by  the  way ;  going  back  to  former  history  and 
antecedents,  and  forward  to  future  probable  consequences 
and  results.  Nuts  of  society  ;  sweet  confections  of  con- 
versation ;  of  various  and  changing  flavour  ;  suiting  all 
palates,  and  warranted  never  to  cloy.  Then  there  were 
farm  prospects  and  doings  also,  with  household  matters  ; 
very  interesting  to  the  good  ladies  who  all  had  life  interest 
in  them  ;  and  the  hours  moved  on  prosperously.  Here  a 


14  DIANA. 

rocking-chair  tipped  gently  back  and  forward,  in  harmony 
with  the  quiet  business  enjoyment  of  its  occupant ;  and 
there  a  pair  of  heels,  stretched  out  to  the  furthest  limit  of 
their  corresponding  members,  with  toes  squarely  elevated 
in  the  air,  testified  to  the  restful  condition  of  another 
individual  of  the  party.  See  a  pair  of  toes  in  the  air 
and  the  heels  as  nearly  as  possible  straight  under  them, 
one  tucked  up  on  the  other,  and  you  may  be  sure  the  person 
they  belong  to  feels  comfortable — physically.  And  Mrs. 
Starling  in  a  corner,  in  her  quiet  state  and  black-silk  gown 
was  as  contented  as  an  old  hen  that  sees  all  her  chickens 
prosperously  scratching  for  themselves.  And  the  June 
afternoon  breathed  in  at  the  window  and  upon  all  those 
busy  talkers ;  and  nobody  knew  that  it  was  June.  So 
things  went,  until  Diana  left  them  to  put  the  finishing 
touches  of  readiness  to  the  tea-table.  Her  going  was 
noticed  by  some  of  the  assembly,  and  taken  as  a  prepara- 
tory note  of  the  coming  entertainment ;  always  sure  to  be 
worth  having  and  coming  for  in  Mrs.  Starling's  house. 
Needles  and  tongues  took  a  fresh  stir. 

'Mis'  Starling,  are  we  goin'  to  hev' the  minister?' 
somebody  asked. 

'  I  don't  know  as  anybody  has  told  him,  Mis'  Mans- 
field.' 

*  Won't  seem  like  a  meetin',  ef  we  don't  hev'  him.' 

'  He's  gone  down  to  Elmfield,'  said  Miss  Gunn.  '  He 
went  down  along  in  the  forenoon  some  time.  Gone  to  see 
his  cousin,  I  s'pose.' 

'  They've  got  their  young  soldier  home  to  Elmfield,' 
said  Miss  Barry.  '  I  s'pect  they're  dreadful  sot  up  about  it.' 

'  They  don't  want  that,'  said  Mrs.  Boddington.  '  The 
Knowltons  always  did  carry  their  heads  pretty  well  up,  in 
the  best  o'  times ;  and  now  Evan's  got  home,  I  s'pose 


THE   SEWING   SOCIETY.  1 5 

there'll  be  no  holding  'em  in.  There  ain't,  I  guess,  by  the 
looks.' 

'  What'll  he  do  now?  stay  to  hum  and  help  his  gran'- 
ther  ? ' 

'  La !  no.  He's  home  just  for  a  visit.  He's  got 
through  his  education  at  the  Military  Academy,  and  now 
he's  an  officer;  out  in  the  world;  but  he'll  have  to  go 
somewhere  and  do  his  work.' 

'  I  wonder  what  work  they  do  hev'  to  do  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Salter  ;  '  there  ain't  nobody  to  fight  now,  is  there  ? ' 

'  Fight  the  Injuns,'  said  Mrs.  Bodclington  ;  '  or  the 
Mexicans  ;  or  the  English  may  be ;  anything  that  comes 
handy.' 

'  But  we  hain't  no  quarrel  with  the  English,  nor  nobody, 
hev'  we  ?  I  thought  we  was  done  fightin1  for  the  present,' 
said  Miss  Barry,  in  a  disturbed  tone  of  voice. 

'  Well,  suppos'n  we  be,'  said  Mrs.  Boddington  ;  '  some- 
body might  give  us  a  slap,  you  know,  when  we  don't  expect 
it,  and  it's  best  to  be  ready ;  and  so,  Evan  Knowlton'll 
be  one  o'  them  that  has  to  stand  somewhere  with  his  musket 
to  his  shoulder,  and  look  after  a  lot  o'  powder  behind  him 
all  the  while.' 

'  Du  tell !  if  it  takes  four  years  to  learn  'em  to  du  that/ 
said  Miss  Babbage,  the  doctor's  sister. 

'  The  Knowltons  is  a  very  fine  family,'  remarked  Miss 
Gunn. 

'  If  the  outside  made  it,'  said  Mrs.  Boddington.  '  Don't 
they  cut  a  shine  when  they  come  into  meetin,'  though  ! 
They  think  they  do.' 

'  It  takes  all  the  boys'  attention  off  everything,'  said 
Mrs.  Flandin,  who  was  an  elderly  lady  herself. 

'  And  the  girls  ' — added  Mrs.  Starling.  But  what  more 
might  have  been  said  was  cut  short  by  Miss  Barry's  crying 
out  that  here  was  the  minister  coming. 


CHAPTER  It 

THE    NEW    MINISTER. 

THE  little  stir  and  buzz  which  went  round  the  assembly 
at  this  news,  was  delightful.  Not  one  but  moved  excitedly 
on  her  seat,  and  then  settled  herself  for  an  unwonted 
good  time.  For  the  new  minister  was  undiscovered 
ground  ;  an  unexamined  possession  ;  unexplored  treas- 
ure. One  Sunday  and  two  sermons  had  done  no  more 
than  whet  the  appetite  of  the  curious.  Nobody  had  made 
up  his  mind,  or  her  mind,  on  the  subject,  in  regard  to  any 
of  its  points.  So  there  were  eyes  enough  that  from  Mrs. 
Starling's  windows  watched  the  minister  as  he  dismounted 
and  tied  his  horse  to  the  fence,  and  then  opened  the  little 
gate  and  came  up  to  the  house.  Diana  had  returned  to 
the  room  to  bid  the  company  out  to  supper  ;  but  finding 
all  heads  turned  one  way,  and  necks  craned  over,  and  eyes 
on  the  stretch,  she  paused  and  waited  for  a  more  auspicious 
inoment.  And  then  came  a  step  in  the  passage  and  the 
door  opened. 

Mr.  Hardenburgh,  each  lady  remembered,  used  to 
make  the  circuit  of  the  company  giving  every  one  a 
several  clasp  of  the  hand  and  an  individual  word  of  civility. 
Here  was  a  change  !  The  new  minister  came  into  the  midst 
of  them  and  stood  still,  with  a  bright  look  and  a  cheery 
'  Good  afternoon  ! '  It  was  full  of  good  cheer  and  genial 
greeting ;  but  what  lady  could  respond  to  it  ?  The  greeting 


THE   NEW   MINISTER.  I/ 

was  not  given  to  her.  The  silence  was  absolute  ;  though 
eyes  said  they  had  heard,  and  were  listening. 

'  I  have  been  down  at  Elmfield,'  the  new-comer  went 
on,  not  at  all  disturbed  by  his  reception  ;  '  and  some  one 
informed  me  I  should  find  a  large  circle  of  friends  if  I 
came  here  ;  so  I  came.  And  I  find  I  was  told  truly.' 

'  I  guess  we'd  'most  given  you  up,'  said  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  coming  out  of  her  corner  now. 

'  I  don't  know  what  reason  you  had  to  expect  me ! 
Nobody  asked  me  to  come.' 

'  We're  real  glad  to  see  you.  Take  a  chair,'  said  Mrs. 
Starling,  setting  one  for  his  acceptance  as  she  spoke. 

'  Mr.  Hardenburgh  allays  used  to  come  to  our  little 
meetin's,'  said  Mrs.  Mansfield. 

'  Thank  you  !  —  And  you  expect  me  to  do  all  that  Mr. 
Hardenburgh  did  ? ' 

There  was  such  a  quaint  air  of  good-fellowship  and 
simplicity  in  the  new  minister's  manner,  that  the  little 
assembly  began  to  stir  anew  with  gratification  and  amuse- 
ment. But  nobody  was  forward  to  answer.  In  fact  they 
were  a  trifle  shy  of  him.  The  late  Mr.  Hardenburgh  had 
been  heavy  and  slow  ;  kind,  of  course,  but  stiff  ;  you  knew 
just  what  he  would  do  and  how  he  would  speak  before- 
hand. There  was  a  delightful  freshness  and  uncertainty 
about  this  man.  Nothing  imposing,  either;  a  rather  small, 
slight  figure  ;  with  a  face  that  might  or  might  not  be  called 
handsome  according  to  the  fancy  of  the  speaker,  but  that 
all  would  agree  was  wonderfully  attractive  and  winning. 
A  fine  broad  brow ;  an  eye  very  sweet ;  with  a  build  of  the 
jaw  and  lines  of  the  mouth  speaking  both  strength  and  the 
absolutest  calm  of  the  mental  nature. 

'  I  was  afraid  I  should  be  late,'  he  went  on,  looking  at 
his  watch, — 'but  the  roads  are  good.  How  far  do  you  call 
it  from  Elmfield  ? ' 


1 8  DIANA. 

'  All  of  five  miles,'  said  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Yes ;  and  one  hill  to  cross.  Well !  I  came  pretty  well 
The  long  June  afternoon  favoured  me.' 

'  Mr.  Hardenburgh  used  to  drive  a  buggy,'  remarked 
Miss  Barry. 

'  Yes.  Is  that  one  of  the  things  you  would  like  me  to 
do  as  he  did  ? ' 

'  Well,  none  of  our  ministers  ever  went  such  a  venture- 
some way  before,"  said  the  timid  little  old  lady. 

'  As  I  do  ?  But  if  /had  been  in  a  buggy,  Miss  Barry, 
this  afternoon,  I  am  afraid  you  would  have  got  through 
supper  and  been  near  breaking  up  before  I  could  have 
joined  your  society.' 

'  How  long  was  you  comin'  then  ?  '  she  asked,  looking 
startled. 

*  And  there's  another  thing,  Mr.  Masters,'  said  Mrs. 
Mansfield  ;  '  why  do  the  days  be  so  much  longer  in  summer 
than  in  winter  ?  I  asked  Mr.  Hardenburgh  once,  but  I 
couldn't  make  out  nothin'  from  what  he  told  me  ? ' 

Sly  looks  and  suppressed  laughter  went  round  the 
room,  for  some  of  Mrs.  Mansfield's  neighbours  were  better 
informed  than  she  in  all  that  lay  above  the  level  of  practi- 
cal farming;  but  Mr.  Masters  quite  gravely  assured  her 
he  would  make  it  all  clear  the  first  time  he  had  a  quiet 
chance  at  her  house. 

<  And  will  you  walk  out  to  supper,  friends  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Starling.  '  Here's  Di  been  standin'  waitin'  to  call  us  this 
half  hour.' 

The  supper  was  laid  on  a  long  table  in  the  lean-to, 
which  was  used  as  a  kitchen  ;  but  now  the  fire  was  out, 
and  the  tea-kettle  had  been  boiled  and  was  kept  boiling 
in  some  unknown  region.  Doors  and  windows  stood  open, 
letting  the  sweet  air  pass  through ;  and  if  the  floor  was 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  IQ 

bare  and  the  chairs  were  wooden,  both  one  and  the  other 
were  bright  with  cleanliness  ;  and  the  long  board  was 
bright  in  another  way.  Yet  the  word  is  not  misapplied. 
Such  piles  of  snowy  bread  and  golden  cake,  such  delicate 
cheeses  and  puffy  biscuits,  and  such  transparencies  of  rich- 
coloured  preserves,  were  an  undoubted  adornment  to  Mrs. 
Starling's  deal  table  ;  and  might  have  been  to  any  table 
in  the  world.  The  deal  was  covered,  however,  with  white 
cloths.  At  the  upper  end  the  hostess  took  her  place  be- 
hind a  regiment  of  cups  and  saucers,  officered  by  great  tin 
pots  which  held  the  tea  and  coffee.  Diana  waited. 

Everybody  had  come  expecting  a  good  supper  and 
primed  for  enjoyment ;  and  now  the  enjoyment  began. 
Mrs.  Starling  might  smile  grimly  to  herself  as  she  saw  her 
crab  apples  and  jellies  disappear,  and  the  piles  of  bis- 
cuits go  down  and  get  heaped  up  again  by  Diana's  care. 
Nobody  was  at  leisure  enough  to  mark  her. 

'  Eat  when  you  can,  Mr.  Masters,'  said  Mrs.  Bodding- 
ton  ;  '  you  won't  get  hot  biscuits  anywhere  in  Pleasant 
Valley  but  here.' 

'  Why  not  ? '  said  Mr.  Masters. 

1  It  ain't  the  fashion — that's  all.' 

'  I  s'pose  you've  seen  the  fashions  to-day  down  at  Elm- 
field,  Mr.  Masters,'  said  Mrs.  Salter.  '  They  don't  think  as 
we  hev'  no  fashions  up  here  in  the  mountains.' 

'  Their  fashions  is  ridiculous  ! '  said  Mrs.  Flandin.  '  Do 
you  think  it's  becomin',  Mr.  Masters,  for  Christian  women 
to  go  and  make  sights  of  themselves  ? ' 

'  In  what  way,  Mrs.  Flandin  ? ' 

'Why  goodness  !  you've  seen  'em.  Describin's  impos- 
sible. Euphemie  Knowlton,  she  came  into  church  last  Sab- 
bath three  yards  in  extent,  ef  she  was  a  foot.  It  beat  me, 
how  she  was  goin'  to  get  in.  Why  there  warn't  room  foi 


2O  DIANA. 

but  three  of  'em  in  the  slip,  and  it  took  'em  somethin'  like 
half  an  hour  to  get  fixed  in  their  places.  I  declare  I  was 
ashamed,  and  I  had  to  look,  for  all. ' 

'  So  had  I,'  assented  Miss  Carpenter.  '  I  couldn't  fairly 
keep  my  eyes  off  of  'em.' 

'  And  I'm  certain  she  couldn't  go  agin  the  wind,  with 
her  bonnet ;  it  stuck  just  right  up  from  her  face,  and  end- 
ed in  a  pint,  and  she  had  a  hull  garden  in  the  brim  of  it, 
/think  ministers  had  ought  to  preach  about  such  doin's.' 

'  And  you  don't  know  what  ministers  are  good  for  if 
they  don't  ? '  said  Mr.  Masters. 

'  Did  you  ever  see  a  minister  that  could  get  the  better 
of  'em  ? '  said  Mrs.  Boddington.  'Cos,  if  you  did,  I  would 
like  to  go  and  sit  under  his  preachin'  a  spell,  and  see  what 
he  could  do  for  me.' 

'  Does  that  express  the  mind  of  Pleasant  Valley  gen- 
erally ? '  asked  the  minister,  and  gravely  this  time. 

'  La  !  we  ain't  worse  than  other  folks,'  said  Mrs.  Salter. 
'  There's  no  harm  in  dressin'  one's  self  smart  now  and  then, 
is  there  ?  And  we  want  to  know  how,  to  be  sure. ' 

'  I  hope  you  don't  think  Euphemie  Knowlton  knows 
how  ?  'Tain't  a  quarter  as  becomin'  as  the  way  we  dress  in 
Pleasant  Valley.  There  ain't  the  least  bit  of  prettiness  or 
gracefulness  in  a  woman's  bein'  three  yards  round  ;  any- 
how we  don't  think  so  when  it's  nature.'  So  Mrs.  Salter. 

'  What  do  you  think  o'  lettin'  your  hair  down  over  the 
shoulders,  as  if  you  were  goin'  to  comb  it  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Boddington  ;  '  and  goin'  to  church  so  ? ' 

'  But  how  ever  did  she  make  it  stand  out  as  it  did/ 
asked  Miss  Carpenter.  '  It  was  just  like  spun  glass,  no- 
thin'  smooth  or  quiet  about  it.  Such  a  yellow  mop  I 
never  did  see.  And  it  warn't  a  child  neither.  Who  is  she, 
anyhow ? ' 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  21 

'Not  she.  It  is  a  grown  woman,'  said  Mrs.  Flandin  ; 
'  and  she  looked  like  a  wild  savage.  Don't  the  minister 
agree  with  me,  that  it  ain't  becomin'  for  Christian  women 
to  do  such  things  ? ' 

It  was  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh  that  the  minister  an- 
swered. '  Where  are  you  going  to  draw  the  line,  Mrs. 
Flandin  ? ' 

'  Well !  with  what's  decent  and  comfortable.' 

'And  pretty?  ' 

'  La  !  yes,'  said  Mrs.  Salter.  '  Do  let  us  be  as  nice  as 
we  kin.' 

'  I  think  people  had  ought  to  make  themselves  as  nice- 
lookin'  as  they  can,'  echoed  one  of  the  younger  ladies  of 
the  party  ;  and  there  was  a  general  chorus  of  agreeing  voices. 

'  Well ! '  said  the  minister,  '  then  comes  the  question, 
what  is  nice-looking?  I  dare  say  the  young  lady  with  the 
flowing  tresses  thought  she  was  about  right.' 

'  She  thought  she  was  the  only  one,'  said  Mrs.  Bodding- 
ton. 

A  subject  was  started  now  which  was  fruitful  enough  to 
keep  all  tongues  busy ;  and  whether  biscuits  or  opinions 
had  the  most  lively  circulation  for  some  time  thereafter  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  Old  and  young,  upon  this  matter  of 
town  and  country  fashions,  and  fashion  in  general,  "  gave 
tongue  "  in  concert ;  proving  that  Pleasant  Valley  knew 
what  was  what  as  well  as  any  place  in  the  land ;  that  it 
was  doubtful  what  right  Boston  or  New  York  had  to  dic- 
tate to  it ;  at  the  same  time  the  means  of  getting  at  the 
earliest  the  mind  of  Boston  or  New  York  was  eagerly  dis- 
cussed, and  the  pretensions  of  Elmfield  to  any  advantage 
in  that  matter  as  earnestly  denied.  The  minister  sat  si- 
lent, with  an  imperturbable  face  that  did  him  credit.  At 
last  there  was  a  rush  of  demands  upon  him  for  his  judg- 


22  DIANA. 

ment.  He  declared  that  so  much  had  been  said  upon  the 
subject  he  must  have  time  to  think  it  over  ;  and  he  prom- 
ised to  give  them  some  at  least  of  his  thoughts  before  long 
in  a  sermon. 

With  this  promise,  highly  satisfied,  the  assembly  broke 
up.  Mrs.  Starling  declared  afterwards  to  her  daughter, 
that  if  there  had  been  any  more  fashions  to  talk  about  they 
would  never  have  got  done  supper.  But  now  bonnets  were 
put  on,  and  work  put  up,  and  one  after  another  family 
party  went  off  in  its  particular  farm  wagon  or  buggy.  It 
was  but  just  sundown ;  the  golden  glory  of  the  sky  was 
giving  a  mellow  illumination  to  all  the  land,  as  one  after 
another  the  horses  were  unhitched,  the  travellers  mounted 
into  their  vehicles,  and  the  wheels  went  softly  rolling  off 
over  the  smooth  road.  The  minister  stood  by  the  gate, 
helping  the  ladies  to  untie  and  mount,  giving  pleasant 
words  along  with  pleasant  help,  and  receiving  many  expres- 
sions of  pleasure  in  return. 

'  Dear  me,  Mr.  Masters  ! '  said  Miss  Barry,  the  last 
one,  '  ain't  you  afraid  you'll  catch  cold,  standing  there  with 
no  hat  on  ? ' 

'Cold  always  attacks  the  weakest  part,  Miss  Barry. 
My  head  is  safe.' 

'Well,  I  declare !'  said  Miss  Barry.  'I  never  heerd 
that  afore.' 

And  as  she  drove  off  in  her  little  green  wagon,  the 
minister  and  Diana,  who  had  come  down  to  the  gate  to  see 
the  last  one  off,  indulged  in  a  harmless  laugh.  Then  they 
both  stood  still  by  the  fence  a  moment,  resting;  the  hush 
was  so  sweet.  The  golden  glory  was  fading ;  the  last 
creak  of  Miss  Barry's  wheels  was  getting  out  of  hearing ; 
the  air  was  perfumed  with  the  scents  which  the  dew  called 
forth. 


THE     NEW     MINISTER.  23 

'  Isn't  it  delicious  ! '  said  the  minister,  leaning  on  the 
little  gate,  and  pushing  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead. 

'  The  stillness  is  pleasant,'  said  Diana. 

'  Yet  you  must  have  enough  of  that  ? '  • 

'  Yes — sometimes,'  said  the  girl.  She  was  a  little  shy  of 
speaking  her  thoughts  to  the  minister  ;  indeed  she  was  not 
accustomed  to  speak  them  to  anybody,  not  knowing  where 
they  could  meet  entertainment.  She  wondered  Mr.  Mas- 
ters did  not  go  like  the  rest ;  however,  it  was  pleasant 
enough  to  stand  there  talking  to  him. 

'What  do  you  do  for  books  here  ? '  he  went  on; 

'  O,  I  have  all  my  father's  books,'  said  Diana.  '  My 
father  was  a  minister,  Mr.  Masters ;  and  when  he  died 
his  books  came  to  me.' 

'  A  theological  library  ! '  said  Mr.  Masters. 

'  Yes.     I  suppose  you  would  call  it  so.' 

'  Have  you  it  here  ?  ' 

1 0  yes.  I  have  it  in  my  room  up  stairs.  All  one  end 
of  the  room  full.' 

'  Do  you  read  these  books  ? ' 

'Yes.  They  are  all  I  have  to  read.  I  have  not  read 
the  whole  of  them.' 

'No,  I  suppose  not.  Do  you  not  find  this  reading 
rather  heavy  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  Some  of  the  books  are  rather  heavy ; 
I  do  not  read  those  much.' 

'  You  must  let  me  look  at  your  library  some  day,  Miss 
Diana.  It  would  be  certain  to  have  charms  for  me  ;  and 
I'll  exchange  with  you.  Perhaps  I  have  books  that  you 
would  not  find  heavy.' 

Diana's  full  grey  eyes  turned  on  the  minister  with 
a  gleam  of  gratitude  and  pleasure.  Her  words  were  not 
needed  to  say  that  she  would  like  that  kind  of  barter. 


24'  DIANA. 

'  So  your  father  was  a  clergyman  ? '  Mr.  Masters  went 
on. 

'  Yes.  Not  here  though.  That  was  when  I  was  quite 
little.  We  lived  a  good  way  from  here  ;  and  I  'remember 
very  well  a  great  many  things  about  all  that  time,  till 
father  died,  and  then  mother  came  back  here.' 

'  Came  backt — then  your  mother  is  at  home  in  Pleasant 
Valley?' 

'O,  we're  both  at  home  here — I  was  so  little  when  we 
came  ;  but  mother's  father  lived  where  Nick  Boddington 
does,  and  owned  all  this  valley — I  don't  mean  Pleasant 
Valley,  but  all  this  hollow ;  a  good  large  farm  it  was  ;  and 
when  he  died  he  left  mother  a  nice  piece  of  it,  with  this 
old  house.' 

'  Mr.  Boddington, — is  he  then  a  relation  of  yours  ? ' 

'  No,  not  exactly ;  he's  the  son  of  grandpa's  second 
wife;  we're  really  no  relations,  but  we  call  each  other 
cousin.  Grandpa  left  the  most  of  his  land  to  his  wife  > 
but  mother's  got  enough  to  manage,  and  nice  land.' 

'  It's  a  beautiful  place  ! '  said  the  minister.  '  There  is 
a  wagon  coming  ;  I  wonder  if  any  of  our  friends  have  for- 
gotten something  ?  That  is — yes,  that  is  fanner  Babbage's 
team  ;  isn't  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  ? ' 

For  something  unusual  in  the  arrangements  of  the 
vehicle,  or  the  occupants  of  it,  was  dimly  yet  surely  to  be 
discerned  through  the  distance  and  the  light,  which  was  now 
turning  brown  rather  than  grey.  Nothing  could  be  seen 
clearly,  and  yet  it  came  as  no  wagon  load  had  gone  from 
that  door  that  evening.  The  minister  took  his  hand  from 
the  gate,  and  Diana  stepped  forward,  as  the  horses  stopped 
in  front  of  the  lean-to ;  and  a  voice  called  out : 

'  Who's  there  to  help  ?  Hollo  !  Lend  a  hand.' 

The  minister  sprang  down  the  road,  followed  by  Diana, 
'  What  do  you  want  help  for  ? '  he  asked. 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  25 

'  There 's  been  an  accident — Jim  Delamater's  wagon — 
we  found  it  overturned  in  the  road  ;  and  here's  Eliza, 
she  hasn't  spoke  since.  Have  you  got  no  more  help  ? ' 

'  Where's  Jim  ? '  asked  Mrs.  Starling,  coming  herself 
from  the  lean-to. 

'  Staid  with  his  team  ;  about  all  he  was  up  to.  Now 
then, — can  we  get  her  in  ?  Where's  Josiah  ? ' 

But  no  more  masculine  help  could  be  mustered  than 
what  was  already  on  hand.  Brains,  however,  can  do  much 
to  supplement  muscular  force.  The  minister  had  a  settee 
out  from  the  house  in  two  minutes  and  by  the  side  of  the 
•wagon;  with  management  and  care,  though  with  much 
difficulty,  the  unconscious  girl  was  lifted  down  and  laid  on 
the  settee ;  and  by  the  aid  of  the  women  carried  straight 
into  the  lean-to,  the  door  of  which  was  the  nearest.  There, 
by  the  same  energetic  ordering,  well  seconded  by  Diana,  a 
mattress  was  brought  and  laid  on  the  long  table,  which  Mrs. 
Starling's  diligence  had  already  cleared  since  supper ;  and 
there  they  placed  the  girl,  who  was  perfectly  helpless  and 
motionless  in  their  hands. 

'There  is  life  yet,'  said  the  minister,  after  an  exam- 
ination during  which  every  one  stood  breathless  around. 
'  Loose  everything  she  has  on,  Miss  Diana;  and  let  us  have 
some  hartshorn,  Mrs.  Starling,  if  you  have  got  any.  Well, 
brandy,  then,  and  cold  water  ;  and  I'll  go  for  the  doctor.' 

But  Mr.  Babbage  represented  that  he  must  himself 
*  go  on  hum  ,'  and  would  pass  by  the  doctor's  door ;  so  if  the 
minister  would  stay  and  help  the  women  folks,  it  would  be 
more  advisable.  Accordingly  the  farmer's  wagon  wheels 
were  soon  heard  departing,  and  the  little  group  in  the 
lean-to  kitchen  were  left  alone.  Too  busy  at  first  to 
think  of  it,  they  were  trying  eagerly  every  restorative  and 
stimulant  they  could  think  of  and  command ;  but  with 


26  DIANA. 

little  effect.  A  little,  they  thought ;  but  consciousness 
had  not  returned  to  the  injured  girl,  when  they  had  done 
all  they  knew  how  to  do  and  tried  everything  within  their 
reach.  Hope  began  to  fade  towards  despair  ;  still  they 
kept  on  with  the  use  of  their  remedies.  Mrs.  Starling  went 
and  came  between  the  room  where  they  were  and  the  stove 
which  stood  in  some  outside  shed,  fetching  bottles  of  hot 
water ;  I  think,  between  whiles,  she  was  washing  up  her 
cups  and  saucers  ;  the  other  two,  in  the  silence  of  her  ab- 
sences, could  feel  the  strange,  solemn  contrasts  which  one 
must  feel,  and  does,  even  in  the  midst  of  keener  anxieties 
than  those  which  beset  the  watchers  there.  The  girl, 
a  fair,  rather  pretty  person,  pleasant-tempered  and  gener- 
ally liked,  lay  still  and  senseless  on  the  table  round  which 
she  and  others  a  little  while  ago  had  been  seated  at  supper. 
Very  still  the  room  was  now,  that  had  been  full  of  voices ; 
the  smell  of  camphor  and  brandy  was  about ;  the  table  was 
wet  in  one  great  spot  with  the  cold  water  which  had  been 
applied  to  the  girl's  face.  And  through  the  open  door 
and  windows  came  the  stir  of  the  sweet  night  air,  and  the 
sound  of  insects,  and  the  gurgle  of  a  brook  that  ran  a  few 
yards  off ;  peaceful,  free,  glad,  as  if  all  were  as  it  had  been 
last  night,  or  nature  took  no  cognizance  of  human  affairs. 
The  minister  had  been  very  active  and  helpful ;  bringing 
wood  and  drawing  water  and  making  up  the  fire,  as  well 
as  anybody,  Mrs.  Starling  said  afterwards  ;  he  had  taken 
his  part  in  the  actual  nursing,  and  better  than  anybody, 
Diana  thought.  Now  the  two  stood  silent  and  grave  by 
the  long  table,  while  they  still  kept  up  the  application  of 
brandy  to  the  face  and  heat  to  the  extremities,  and  rubbing 
the  hands  and  wrists  of  the  patient. 

'  Did  you   know    Miss    Delamater  well  ? '    asked    the 
minister. 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  2/ 

'  Yes — as  I  know  nearly  all  the  girls,'  Diana  answered. 

'  Do  you  think  she  is  ready  for  the  change — if  she 
must  make  it  ? ' 

Diana  hesitated.  '  I  never  heard  her  speak  on  the  sub- 
ject,' she  said.  '  She  wasn't  a  member  of  the  church.' 

Silence  followed,  and  they  were  two  grave  faces  still 
that  bent  over  the  table  ;  but  there  was  the  difference 
between  the  shadow  on  a  mountain  lake  where  there  is 
not  a  ripple,  and  the  dark  stir  of  troubled  waters.  Diana's 
eye  every  now  and  then  glanced  for  an  instant  at  the  face 
of  her  companion  ;  it  was  very  grave,  but  the  broad  brow 
was  as  quiet  as  if  all  its  questions  were  answered,  and  the 
mouth  was  sweet  and  at  rest  in  its  stillness.  She  wished 
he  would  speak  again  ;  there  was  something  in  him  that 
provoked  her  curiosity.  He  did  speak  presently. 

'  This  shows  us  what  the  meaning  of  life  is,'  he  said. 

'  No,'  said  Diana,  '  it  doesn't — to  me.  It  is  just  a 
puzzle,  and  as  much  a  puzzle  here  as  ever.  I  don't  sec 
what  the  use  of  life  is,  or  what  we  all  live  for  ;  I  don't  see 
what  it  amounts  to.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  asked  her  companion,  but  not 
as  if  he  were  startled,  and  Diana  went  on. 

'  I  shouldn't  say  so  if  people  were  always  having  a  good 
time,  and  if  they  were  just  right  and  did  just  right. 
But  they  are  not,  Mr.  Masters ;  you  know  they  are  not ; 
even  the  best  of  them,  that  I  see ;  and  things  like  this  are 
always  happening,  one  way  or  another.  If  it  isn't  here,  it 
is  somewhere  else,  and  if  it  isn't  one  time,  it  is  another  ;  and 
it  is  all  confusion.  I  don't  see  what  it  all  comes  to.' 

'  That  is  the  thought  of  a  moment  of  pain,'  said  the 
minister. 

'  No,  it  is  not,'  said  Diana.  '  I  think  it  often.  I  think  it 
all  the  while.  Now  this  very  afternoon  I  was  sitting  at 


28  DIANA. 

the  door  here, — you  know  what  sort  of  a  day  it  has  been, 
Mr.  Masters  ? ' 

'I  know.     Perfect.     Just  June.' 

'  Well,  I  was  looking  at  it,  and  feeling  how  lovely  it  was  ; 
everything  perfect ;  and  somehow  all  that  perfection  took  a 
kind  of  sharp  edge  and  hurt  me.  I  was  thinking,  why 
nothing  in  the  world  was  like  it,  or  agreed  with  it ;  nothing 
in  human  life,  I  mean.  This  afternoon,  when  the  company 
was  here  and  all  the  talk  going  on  ;  that  was  like  nothing 
out  of  doors  all  the  while  ;  and  this  is  not  like  it.' 

There  was  a  sigh,  deep  drawn,  that  came  through  the 
minister's  lips  ;  then  he  spoke  cheerfully — 'Ay ;  God's 
works  have  parted  company  somehow.' 

'  Parted — ? '  said  Diana  curiously. 

'  Yes.  You  remember  surely  that  when  he  had  made 
all  things  at  first,  he  beheld  them  very  good.' 

4  Well,  they  are  not  very  good  now  ;  not  all  of  them.' 

'Whose  fault  is  that?' 

'  I  know,'  said  Diana,  'but  that  does  not  help  me  with 
my  puzzle.  Why  does  the  world  go  on  so  ?  what  is  the  use 
of  my  living,  or  anybody 's  ?  What  does  it  amount  to  ? ' 

'  That's  your  lesson,'  the  minister  answered,  with  a 
quick  glance  from  his  calm  eyes.  Not  a  bit  of  sentiment 
or  of  speculative  rhapsody  there  ;  but  downright,  cool 
common  sense,  with  just  a  little  bit  of  authority.  Diana 
did  not  know  exactly  how  to  meet  it ;  and  before  she  had 
arranged  her  words,  they  heard  wheels  again,  and  then  the 
doctor  came  in. 

The  doctor  approved  of  what  had  been  done,  and  aid- 
ed in  renewed  application  of  the  same  remedies.  After  a 
time,  these  seemed  at  last  successful ;  the  girl  revived  ; 
and  the  doctor  after  administering  a  little  tea  and  weak 
brandy  and  water,  ordered  that  she  should  be  kept  quiet 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  29 

where  she  was,  the  room  be  darkened  when  daylight  came 
on,  the  windows  kept  open,  and  handkerchiefs  wet  with 
cold  water  be  laid  on  her  head.  And  then  he  took  his  de- 
parture ;  and  Diana  went  to  communicate  to  her  mother 
the  orders  he  had  left. 

'  Keep  her  there  ! '  echoed  Mrs.  Starling.  '  In  the  lean- 
to  !  She'd  be  a  deal  better  in  her  bed/ 

'  We  must  make  her  bed  there,  mother.' 

'  There  !  On  the  table  do  you  mean  ?  Diana  Starling, 
you  are  a  baby  ! ' 

'  She  musn't  be  stirred,  mother,  he  says/ 

'  That's  the  very  thing  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Starling.  '  She 
had  ought  to  ha'  been  carried  into  one  of  the  bedchambers 
at  the  first ;  and  I  said  so  ;  and  the  new  minister,  he  would 
have  it  all  his  own  way/ 

'But  she  must  have  all  the  air  she  could,  mother,  you 
know/ 

'  Air  ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  Do  you  s'pose  she  would 
smother  in  one  of  the  chambers,  where  many  a  one  before 
her  has  laid,  sick  and  well,  and  got  along  too  ?  Air,  indeed  ! 
The  house  ain't  like  a  corked  bottle,  I  guess/ 

'  Not  much,'  said  Diana ;  '  but  Mr.  Masters  said,  and 
the  doctor  says,  that  she  cannot  have  too  much  air/ 

'  O  well !  Eggs  can't  be  beat  too  much,  neither ;  but  it 
don't  follow  you're  to  stand  beating  'em  for  ever.  I've  no 
patience.  Where  am  I  going  to  do  my  ironing?  I  should 
like  the  minister  for  to  tell  me  ; — or  get  meals,  or  anything 
else  ?  I  don't  see  what  possessed  Josiah  to  go  and  see  his 
folks  to-night,  of  all  nights/ 

'  We  have  not  wanted  him,  mother,  after  all,  that  I 
see.' 

'  I  have  wanted  him  ; '  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  If  he  had 
been  home  I  needn't  to  have  had  queer  help,  and  missed 


3O  DIANA. 

knowing  who  was  head  of  the  house.  Well,  go  along  and  fix 
it, — you  and  the  minister.' 

'  But  mother,  I  want  to  get  Eliza's  things  off,  and  to 
make  her  bed  comfortably  ;  and  I  can't  do  it  without  you.' 

'  Well  get  rid  of  fhe  minister  then,  and  I'll  come.  Him 
and  me  is  too  many  in  one  house.' 

The  minister  would  not  leave  the  two  women  alone  and 
go  home,  as  Diana  proposed  to  him  ;  but  he  went  to  make 
his  horse  comfortable  while  they  did  the  same  for  the  sick 
girl.  And  then  he  took  up  his  post  just  outside  the  door,  in 
the  moonlight  which  came  fitfully  through  the  elm  branches  ; 
and  he  and  Diana  talked  no  more  that  night.  He  was 
watchful  and  helpful  ;  for  he  kept  up  the  fire  in  the  s-tove 
and  once  more  brought  wood  when  it  was  needed.  Moon- 
light melted  away  at  last  into  the  dawn  ;  cool  clear  outlines 
began  to  take  place  of  the  soft  mystery  of  night  shadows  ; 
then  the  warm  glow  from  the  east,  behind  the  house,  and  the 
glint  of  the  sunbeams  on  the  tops  of  the  hills  and  on  the 
racks  of  cloud  lying  along  the  horizon.  Diana  still  kept 
her  place  by  the  improvised  bed,  and  the  minister  kept  his 
just  outside  the  door.  Mrs.  Starling  began  to  prepare  for 
breakfast  ;  and  finally  Josiah,  the  man  of  all  work  on  the 
little  farm,  came  from  his  excursion  and  from  the  barn, 
bringing  the  pails  of  milk.  Then  the  minister  fetched  his 
horse,  and  came  in  to  shake  hands  with  Diana.  He  would 
not  stay  for  breakfast.  She  watched  him  down  to  the  gate, 
where  he  threw  himself  on  his  grey  steed  and  went  off  at 
a  smooth  gallop,  swift  and  steady,  sitting  as  if  he  were 
more  at  home  on  a  horse's  back  than  anywhere  else. 
Diana  looked  after  him. 

'  Certainly,'  she  thought,  '  that  is  unlike  all  the  other 
ministers  that  ever  came  to  Pleasant  Valley.' 

1  He's  off,  is  he  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Starling  as  her  daughter 


THE    NEW     MINISTER.  3! 

came  in.  '  Now  Diana,  take  notice ;  don't  you  go  and  take 
a  fancy  to  this  new  man  ;  because  I  won't  favour  it,  nor 
have  anything  of  the  kind  going  on.  I  tell  you  beforehand.' 

'  There  is  very  little  danger  of  his  taking  a  fancy  to  me, 
mother.' 

'  I  don't  know  about  that.  He  might  do  worse.  But 
you  couldn't  ;  for  I'll  never  have  anything  to  say  to  you  if 
you  do.' 

'  Why,  mother  ? '  inquired  Diana  in  much  surprise.  '  I 
should  think  you'd  like  him.  I  should  think  everybody 
would.  Why  don't  you  like  him  ?  ' 

'  He's  too  masterful  for  me.  Mind  what  I  tell  you, 
Diana.' 

'  It's  absurd,  mother !  Such  a  one  as  Mr.  Masters  never 
would  think  of  such  a  one  as  I  am.  He's  a  very  cultivated 
man,  mother  ;  and  has  been  accustomed  to  very  different 
society  from  what  he'll  find  here.  I  don't  seem  to  him 
what  I  seem  to  you.' 

'  I  hope  not ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling,  'for  you  seem  to  me  a 
goose.  Cultivated  !  Who  is  cultivated,  if  you  are  not  ? 
Weren't  you  a  whole  year  at  school  in  Boston  ?  I  guess  my 
gentleman  hasn't  been  to  a  better  place.  And  warn't  you  for 
ever  reading  those  musty  old  books,  that  make  you  out  of 
kilter  for  all  my  world.  If  you  don't  fit  his  neither,  I'm 
sorry.  Society,  indeed  !  There's  no  better  society  than  the 
folks  of  Pleasant  Valley.  Don't  you  go  and  set  yourself  up  ; 
nor  him  neither.' 

Diana  knew  better  than  to  carry  on  the  discussion. 

Meanwhile  the  grey  horse  that  bore  the  minister  home 
kept  up  that  long  smooth  gallop  for  a  half  mile  or  so,  then 
slackened  it  to  walk  up  a  hill. 

'  That's  a  very  remarkable  girl  ; '  the  minister  was  say- 
ing to  himself ;  '  with  much  more  in  her  than  she  knows.' 


32  DIANA. 

The  gallop  began  again  in  a  few  minutes,  and  was 
unbroken  till  he  got  home.  It  was  but  a  piece  of  a  home. 
Mr.  Masters  had  rooms  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Persimmon,  a 
poor  widow  living  among  the  hills.  The  rooms  were  neat  ; 
that  was  all  that  could  be  said  for  them  •  little  and  dark 
and  low,  with  bits  of  windows,  and  with  the  simplest  of 
furnishing.  The  sitting-room  was  cheerful  with  books, 
however  ;  as  cheerful  as  books  can  make  a  room,  and  the 
minister  did  not  look  uncheerful  ;  but  very  grave.  If  his 
brow  was  neither  wrinkled  nor  lined,  the  quiet  eyes  beneath 
it  were  deep  with  thought.  Mr.  Masters'  morning  was  spent 
on  this  wise. 

First  of  all,  for  a  good  half  hour,  his  knees  were  bent 
and  his  thoughts,  whatever  they  were,  gave  him  work  to  do. 
That  work  done,  the  minister  threw  himself  on  his  bed  and 
slept,  as  quietly  as  he  did  everything  else,  for  an  hour  or 
two  more.  Then  he  rose,  shaved  and  dressed,  took  such 
breakfast  as  Mrs.  Persimmon  could  give  him  ;  mounted 
his  grey  again,  and  was  off  to  a  house  at  some  distance 
where  there  was  a  sick  child,  and  another  house  where 
there  dwelt  an  infirm  old  man.  Between  these  two  the  hours 
were  spent  till  he  rode  home  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HARNESSING    PRINCE. 

THE  improvement  of  the  sick  girl  was  better  than  had 
been  hoped  ;  it  was  but  a  day  or  two  before  Mrs.  Starling's 
heart's  desire  could  be  effected  and  her  kitchen  cleared. 
Eliza  was  moved  to  another  room,  and  at  the  week's  end 
was  taken  home. 

It  was  the  next  day  after  this  had  been  done  ;  and 
Diana  was  sitting  again  in  the  elm  shadow  at  the  door  of  the 
lean-to.  Not  idly  this  time  ;  for  a  pan  of  peas  was  in  her 
lap  and  her  fingers  were  busy  with  shelling  them.  Still  her 
eyes  were  very  much  more  busy  with  the  lovely  light  and 
shade  on  meadow  and  hill ;  her  glances  went  up  and  down, 
from  her  pan  to  the  sunny  landscape.  Mrs.  Starling,  bustling 
about  as  usual  within  the  house  and  never  looking  out,  pres- 
ently hearing  the  gate  latch,  called  out — "  Who's  that  ?  " 

'  Joe  Bartlett,  mother,'  Diana  answered  without  moving. 

It  was  not  the  gate  that  led  to  the  flower  patch  and  the 
front  door.  That  was  some  distance  off.  Another  little 
brown  gate  under  the  elm-tree  opened  directly  in  front  of 
the  lean-to  door  ;  and  the  patch  between  was  all  in  flecker- 
ed sunlight  and  shadow,  like  the  doorway  where  Diana  sat. 

The  little  gate  opening  now  admitted  a  visiter  who  was 
in  appearance  the  very  typical  Yankee  of  the  story  books. 
Long  in  the  limbs,  loose  in  the  joints,  angular,  ungainly,  he 
came  up  the  walk  with  a  movement  that  would  tempt  one 


34  DIANA. 

to  think  he  had  not  got  accustomed  to  his  inches  and  did 
not  yet  know  quite  what  to  do  with  them  all.  He  had  a 
long  face,  red  in  colour  ;  in  expression  a  mixture  of  honest 
frankness,  carelessness,  and  good  humour. 

'  Mornin' ! '  said  he  as  he  came  near.  'How's  your 
folks,  this  forenoon  ? ' 

'  Quite  well — all  there  are  of  us,  Joe,'  said  Diana,  shell- 
ing her  peas  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  '  How's  your 
mother  ? ' 

'  Well,  she's  pretty  smart.     Mother  seems  to  be  allays 
just  about  so.     I  never  see  the  beat  of   her  for  keepin' 
along.    You've  had  quite  a  spell  o'  nursin'  folks,  hain't  you, 
down  this  way  ?     Must  ha'  upset  you  quite  considerable.' 
'We  didn't  have  the  worst  of  the  upsetting.' 
'  That's  a  fact.     Well,  she's  gone,  ain't  she  ? ' 
'  Who,  Eliza  Delamater  ?     Yes  ;  gone  yesterday.' 
'  And  you  hain't  nobody  else  on  hand,  have  ye  ? ' 
'  No.     Why  ? ' 

'  Mother's  took  a  lonesome  fit.  She  says  it's  quite  a 
spell  that  you  hain't  ben  down  our  way ;  and  I  guess  that's 
so,  ain't  it  ? ' 

'  I  couldn't  help  it,  Joe.     I  have  had  other  things  to  do.' 
'  Well,  don't  you  think  to-day's  a  good  sort  for  a  visit  ? ' 
'  To-day  ?  '  said  Diana,  shelling  her  peas  very  fast. 
'  You  see,  it's  pretty  silent  down  to  our  place.     That  is, 
when  I  ain't  to  hum  ;  and  I  can't  be  there  much  o'  the 
time,  'cept  when  I'm  asleep  in  my  bed.     I'm  off  as  soon  as 
I've  done  the  chores  in  the  mornin' ;  and  I  can't  get  hum 
nohow  sooner  than  to  do  up  the  chores  in  the  evening  and 
the  old  lady  has  it  pretty  much  her  own  way  as  to  conver- 
sation the  rest  o'  the  time.     She  can  talk  to  what  she  likes  ; 
but  there  ain't  nothin'  as  can  make  a  remark  back  to  her.' 
*  It's  too  bad,  Joe  ! ' 


HARNESSING    PRINCE.  35 

'  Fact ! '  said  Joe  seriously  ;  all  the  rest  had  been  said 
with  a  smile  ;  '  but  you  know  mother.  Come  !  put  on  your 
bonnit  and  run  down  and  set  with  her  a  spell.  She's  took 
a  notion  to  have  ye ;  and  I  know  she'll  be  watchin'  till  you 
come.' 

'  Then  I  must  go.     I  guess  I  can  arrange  it,  Joe.' 

'Well,  I'll  get  along  then  where  I  had  ought  to  be. 
Mis'  Starling  cuttin'  her  hay  ? ' 

'  Yes,  this  week  and  more.' 

'  It's  turnin'  out  a  handsome  swath ;  but  it  had  ought 
to  be  all  down  now.  Well,  good  day  \  Hurry  up,  now, 
for  down  yonder.' 

Diana  brought  in  her  pan  of  peas. 

'  Mother,  where's  Josiah  Davis  ? ' 

'  Where  should  he  be  ?  He's  up  in  the  hill  lot,  cuttin' 
hay.  That  grass  is  all  in  flower  ;  it  had  ought  to  been  cut 
a  week  ago ;  but  Josiah  always  has  one  of  his  hands  be- 
hind him.' 

'And  he  won't  be  in  till  noon.  I  must  harness  the 
wagon  myself.' 

'  If  you  can  catch  the  horse,'  said  her  mother.  '  He's 
turned  out  in  the  lot.  It's  a  poor  job,  at  this  time  o'  day.' 

'  I'll  try  and  make  a  good  job  of  it,'  said  Diana.  So 
she  took  her  sun-bonnet  and  went  out  to  the  barn.  The 
old  horse  was  not' far  off,  for  the  "lot"  in  this  case  meant 
simply  the  small  field  in  which  the  barn  and  barnyard 
were  enclosed  ;  but  being  a  wary  old  animal,  with  a  good 
deal  of  experience  of  life,  he  had  come  to  know  that  a 
halter  and  a  pan  of  corn  generally  meant  hard  work  near 
at  hand  ;  and  was  won't  to  be  shy  of  such  allurements. 
Diana  could  sometimes  do  better  than  anybody  else  with 
old  Prince  ;  they  were  on  good  terms  ;  and  Prince  had 
sense  enough  to  take  notice  that  she  never  followed  the 


36  DIANA. 

plough,  and  \ps  therefore  a  safer  venture  than  his  other 
flatterers.  With  the  corn  and  the  halter  Diana  now  sought 
the  corner  where  Prince  was  standing  whisking  his  tail  in 
the  shade  of  a  tree.  But  it  was  a  warm  morning ;  and 
seeing  her  approach,  Prince  quietly  walked  off  into  the  sun 
on  the  other  side  of  the  tree  and  went  on  to  another  shady 
resting-place  some  distance  away.  Diana  followed,  speak- 
ing to  him  ;  but  Prince  repeated  his  ungallant  manoeuvre, 
and  from  tree  to  tree  across  the  sunny  field  Diana  trudged 
after  him,  until  she  was  hot  and  tired.  Perhaps  Prince's 
philosophy  came  in  play  at  last,  warning  him  that  this  game 
could  not  go  on  for  ever,  and  would  certainly  end  in  his 
discomfiture  some  time  ;  for  with  no  apparent  reason  for 
his  change  of  tactics,  he  stood  still  at  length  under  the  tree 
furthest  from  the  barn,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  made 
captive.  Diana  got  the  halter  on,  and  flushed  and  excited 
with  the  chase,  led  him  back  over  the  lot  and  out  to  the 
road,  where  Josiah  had  very  culpably  left  the  little  wagon 
standing  in  the  shade  of  the  elm,  close  by  the  lean-to  gate. 
Just  as  she  got  there,  Diana  saw  a  stranger  who  had  his 
hand  on  the  gate,  but  who  left  it  now  and  came  forward  to 
speak  to  her. 

Diana  stood  by  the  thills  of  the  wagon,  horse  in  hand, 
but,  to  tell  the  truth,  forgetting  both.  The  stranger  was 
unlike  anything  often  seen  in  Pleasant  Valley.  He  wore 
the  dark  blue  uniform  of  an  army  officer  ;  there  was  a 
stripe  of  gold  down  the  seam  of  his  pantaloons  and  a  gold 
bar  across  his  shoulders,  and  his  cap  was  a  soldier's  cap. 
But  it  was  not  on  his  head  just  now;  it  had  come  off  since 
he  quitted  the  gate  ;  and  the  step  with  which  he  drew  near 
was  the  very  contrast  to  Joe  Bartlett's  lounging  pace  ; 
this  was  measured,  clean,  compact  and  firm,  withal  as  light 
and  even  as  that  of  an  antelope.  His  hair  shewed  the 


HARNESSING    PRINCE.  37 

regulation  cut;  and  Diana  saw  with  the  same  glance  a 
pair  of  light,  brilliant,  hazel  eyes  and  a  finely  trimmed 
mustache.  She  stood  flushed  and  still,  halter  in  hand, 
with  her  sun-bonnet  pushed  a  little  back  for  air.  The 
stranger  smiled  just  a  little. 

'  May  I  ask,  how  far  I  am  from  a  place  called  Elm- 
field  ? ' 

'  It  is  ' —  Diana's  thoughts  wandered,  —  'it  is  five 
miles.' 

'  I  ought  not  to  need  to  ask — but  I  have  been  so  long 
away. — Do  you  know  how  or  where  I  can  get  a  horse,  or 
any  conveyance,  to  bring  me  there  ?  I  have  ridden  be- 
yond this,  and  met  with  an  accident.' 

Diana  hesitated.     '  Is  it  Lieut.  Kaowlton  ? '  she  said. 

'  Ah,  you  know  me  ? '  said  he.  '  I  forgot  that  Pleasant 
Valley  knows  me  better  than  I  know  Pleasant  Valley.  I 
did  not  count  on  finding  a  friend  here.'  His  eye  glanced 
at  the  little  brown  house. 

'  Everybody  knows  Elmfieid,'  said  Diana ;  '  and  I 
guessed — ' 

'  From  my  dress  ? '  said  Mr.  Knowlton,  following  the 
direction  of  her  look.  '  This  was  accident  too.  But  which 
of  my  friends  ought  I  to  know  here,  that  I  don't  know  ? 
Pardon  me, — but  is  this  horse  to  be  put  to  the  wagon  or 
taken  away  from  it  ? ' 

'  O,  I  was  going  to  put  him  in.' 

'  Allow  me  ' said  the  young  man,  taking  the  halter 

from  Diana's  willing  hands  ;  '  but  where  is  the  harnessing 
gear  ? ' 

'  O  that  is  in  the  barn  ! '  exclaimed  Diana.  '  I  will  go 
and  fetch  it.' 

'  Pray  no  !  Let  me  get  it,'  said  her  companion  ;  and 
giving  the  end  of  the  halter  a  turn  round  one  of  the  thills, 


38  DIANA. 

he  had  overtaken  her  before  she  had  well  taken  half  a 
dozen  steps.  They  went  together  through  the  barnyard. 
Diana  found  the  harness,  and  the  young  officer  threw  it 
over  his  shoulder  with  a  smile  at  her  which  answered 
her  deprecating  words  ;  a  smile  extremely  pleasant  and 
gentlemanly,  if  withal  a  little  arch.  Diana  shrank  back 
somewhat  before  the  glance,  which  to  her  fancy  shewed 
the  power  of  keen  observation  along  with  the  habit 
of  giving  orders.  They  went  back  to  the  elm  and  Mr. 
Knowlton  harnessed  the  horse,  Diana  explaining  in  a 
word  or  two  the  necessity  under  which  she  had  been  acting. 

'  And  what  about  my  dilemma  ? '  said  he  presently,  as 
his  task  was  finished. 

'  There  is  no  horse  or  wagon  you  could  get  anywhere, 
that  I  know  of,'  said  Diana.  '  The  teams  are  apt  to  be  in 
use  just  now.  But  I  am  going  down  to  within  a  mile  of 
Elmfield  ;  and  I  was  going  to  say,  if  you  like,  I  can  take 
you  so  far. ' 

'  And  who  will  do  me  such  kindness  ? ' 

1  Who  ?     O— Diana  Starling.' 

'  Is  that  a  name  I  ought  to  know  ? '  inquired  Mr. 
Knowlton.  '  I  shall  know  it  from  this  day ;  but  how  about 
before  to-day  ?  I  have  been  gone  from  Pleasant  Valley, 
at  school  and  at  the  Military  Academy,  four,  five, — ten 
years.' 

'  Mother  came  back  here  to  live  just  ten  years  ago.' 

'  My  conscience  is  clear ! '  he  said  smiling.  '  I  was 
beginning  to  whip  myself.  Now  are  we  ready  ? ' 

Not  quite,  for  Diana  went  into  the  house  for  her  gloves 
and  a  straw  hat ;  she  made  no  other  change  in  her  dress, 
having  taken  off  her  apron  before  she  set  out  after  Prince. 
She  found  her  new  friend  standing  with  the  reins  in  his 
hand,  as  if  he  were  to  drive  and  not  she  ;  and  Diana  was 


HARNESSING    PRINCE.  39 

helped  into  her  own  wagon  with  a  deferential  courtesy 
which  up  to  that  time  she  had  only  read  of  in  books  ;  nor 
known  much  even  so.  It  silenced  her  at  first.  She  sat 
down  as  mute  as  a  child ;  and  Mr.  Knowlton  handled 
Prince  and  the  wagon  and  all  in  the  style  of  one  that 
knew  how  and  had  the  right. 

That  drive  however  was  not  to  be  silent  or  stiff  in  any 
degree.  Mr.  Knowlton,  for  his  part,  had  no  shyness  or 
hesitation  belonging  to  him.  He  had  seen  the  world  and 
learnt  its  freedom.  Diana  was  only  a  simple  country  girl, 
and  had  never  seen  the  world  ;  yet  she  was  as  little  troubled 
with  embarrassment  of  any  sort.  Partly  this  was,  no  doubt, 
because  of  her  sound,  healthy  New  England  nature ;  the 
solid  self-respect  which  does  not  need — nor  use — to  put 
itself  in  the  balance  with  anything  else  to  be  assured  of  its 
own  quality.  But  part  belonged  to  Diana's  own  person- 
alty ;  in  a  simple,  large  nature,  too  simple  and  too  large  to 
feel  small  motives  or  to  know  petty  issues.  If  her  cheeks 
and  brow  were  flushed  at  first,  it  was  because  the  sun  had 
been  hot  in  the  lot  and  Prince  tiresome.  She  was  as 
composedly  herself  as  ever  the  young  officer  could  be. 
But  I  think  each  of  them  was  a  little  excited  by  the  com- 
panionship of  the  other. 

'  Do  you  drive  this  old  fellow  yourself  ? '  asked  Mr. 
Knowlton,  after  a  little.  '  But  I  need  not  ask  !  Of  course 
you  do.  There's  no  difficulty.  And  not  much  danger,'  he 
added,  with  a  tone  so  dry  and  comical  that  they  both  burst 
into  a  laugh. 

'I  assure  you  I  am  very  glad  to  have  Prince,'  said 
Diana.  '  He  is  so  old  now  that  they  generally  let  him 
off  from  the  farm  work.  He  takes  mother  and  me  to 
church ;  and  stands  ready  for  anything  I  want  most  of  the 
time.' 


4O  DIANA. 

'  Lucky  for  me,  too,'  said  Mr.  Knowlton.  '  I  am  afraid 
you  will  find  the  sun  very  hot ! ' 

'  I  ?  O  no,  I  don't  mind  it  at  all,'  said  Diana.  '  There's 
a  nice  air  now.  Where  is  your  horse,  Mr.  Knowlton  ?  you 
said  you  had  an  accident.' 

'  Yes.  That  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  beyond  your 
house.' 

'  And  is  your  horse  there  ? ' 

'  Must  be,  I  think.  I  shall  send  some  people  to  re- 
move him.' 

'Why,  is  he  deadV 

1 1  should  not  have  left  him  else,  Miss  Starling.' 

Diana  did  not  choose  to  go  on  with  a  string  of  ques- 
tions ;  and  her  companion  hesitated. 

'  It's  my  own  fault,'  he  said  with  a  sort  of  displeased 
half  laugh ;  '  a  piece  of  boyish  thoughtlessness  that  I've 
paid  for.  There  was  a  nice  red  cow  lying  in  the  middle 
of  the  road — ' 

'  Where  ? '  said  Diana,  wondering. 

'  Just  ahead  of  me  ;  a  few  rods.  She  was  lying  quite 
quietly,  taking  her  morning  siesta  in  the  sun  ;  plunged  in 
ruminative  thoughts,  I  supposed  \  and  the  temptation  was 
irresistible,  to  go  over  without  disturbing  her.' 

'  Over  her  ? '  said  Diana,  in  a  maze. 

'  Yes.  I  counted  on  what  one  should  never  count  on 
• — what  I  didn't  know.' 

'  What  was  that  ? ' 

'  Whether  it  would  occur  to  her  to  get  upon  her  legs, 
just  at  that  moment.' 

'  And  she  did  ? '  inquired  Diana. 

'  She  did.' 

'  What  did  that  do,  Mr.  Knowlton  ? ' 

'  Threw  my  poor  steed  off  his  legs  forever !    And  here, 


HARNESSING    PRINCE.  41 

in  despite  of  his  vexation,  which  was  real  and  apparent, 
the  young  man  burst  into  a  laugh.  Diana  had  not  got  at 
his  meaning. 

'  And  where  were  you,  Mr.  Knowlton  ? ' 

'  On  his  back.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  being 
such  a  boy.  Don't  you  understand  ?  The  creature  rose 
up  just  in  time  to  be  in  the  way  of  my  leap,  and  we  were 
thrown  over ;  my  horse  and  I.' 

'Thrown  !     You  were  not  hurt,  Mr.  Knowlton  ? ' 

'  I  deserved  it,  didn't  I.  But  I  was  nothing  the  worse 
— except  for  losing  my  horse,  and  my  self-complacency.' 

'Was  the  horse  killed  ?' 

'  No  ;  not  by  the  fall.  But  he  was  injured  ;  so  that  I 
saw  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  put  him  out  of  life  at 
once  ;  so  I  did  it.  I  had  my  pistols ;  I  often  ride  with 
them,  to  be  ready  for  any  sport  that  may  offer.  I  am  very 
much  ashamed,  to  have  to  tell  you  this  story  of  myself ! ' 

There  was  so  much  of  earnestness  in  the  expression  of 
the  last  sentence,  it  was  said  with  such  a  deferential  con- 
trition, if  I  may  so  speak,  that  Diana's  thoughts  experi- 
enced a  diversion  from  the  subject  that  had  occasioned 
them.  The  contrition  came  more  home  than  the  fault. 
By  common  consent  they  went  off  to  other  matters  of  talk. 
Diana  explained  and  commented  on  the  history  and  fea- 
tures of  Pleasant  Valley,  so  far  at  least  as  her  companion's 
questions  called  for  such  explanation,  and  that  was  a  good 
deal.  Mr.  Knowlton  gave  her  details  of  his  own  life  and 
experience,  which  were  much  more  interesting,  she  thought. 
The  conversation  ran  freely ;  and  again  and  again  eyes 
met  eyes  full  in  sympathy  over  some  grave  or  laughing 
point  of  intelligence. 

And  what  is  there  in  the  meeting  of  eyes  ?  What  if 
the  one  pair  were  sparkling  and  quick,  and  the  brow  o  rer 


42  DIANA. 

them  bore  the  fair  lines  of  command  ?  What  though  the 
other  pair  were  deep  and  thoughtful  and  sweet,  and  the 
brow  one  that  promised  passion  and  power  ?  A  thousand 
other  eyes  might  have  looked  on  either  one  of  them,  and 
forgotten  ;  these  two  looked — and  remembered.  You  can- 
not tell  why  ;  it  is  the  old  story  ;  the  hidden,  unreadable 
affinity  making  itself  known  to  its  counterpart ;  the  sign 
and  countersign  of  nature.  But  it  was  only  nature  that 
gave  and  took ;  not  Diana  and  Mr.  Knowlton. 

Meanwhile  Prince  had  an  easy  time  ;  and  the  little 
wagon  went  very  gently  over  the  smooth  roads  past  one 
farm  after  another. 

'  Prince  can  go  faster  than  this,'  Diana  confided  at  last 
to  her  companion. 

'  He  doesn't  want  to,  does  he  ? ' 

Diana  laughed,  and  knew  in  her  heart  she  was  of 
Prince's  mind. 

However,  even  five  miles  will  come  to  an  end  in  time 
if  you  keep  going  even  slowly  ;  and  in  time  the  little  brown 
house  of  Mrs.  Bartlett  appeared  in  the  distance,  and  Prince 
drew  the  wagon  up  before  the  door.  Diana  alighted,  and 
Mr.  Knowlton  drove  on,  promising  to  send  the  wagon 
back  from  Elmfield. 

It  was  coming  down,  in  more  ways  than  one,  to  get  out 
of  the  wagon  and  go  in  to  make  her  visit.  Diana  did  not 
feel  just  ready  for  it.  She  loosened  the  strings  of  her  hat, 
walked  slowly  up  the  path  between  the  hollyhocks  that  led 
to  the  door,  and  there  stopped  and  turned  to  take  a  last 
look  at  Mr.  Knowlton  in  the  distance.  Such  a  ride  as  she 
had  had !  Such  an  entertainment !  People  in  Pleasant 
Valley  did  not  talk  like  that ;  nor  look  like  that.  How 
much  difference  it  makes,  to  have  education  and  to  see 
the  world.  And  a  military  education  especially,  has  a 


HARNESSING   PRINCE.  43 

more  liberalizing  and  adorning  effect  than  the  course  of 
life  in  the  colleges  ;  the  manner  of  a  soldier  has  in  it  a 
charm  which  is  wanting  in  the  manner  of  a  minister.  As 
for  farmers,  they  have  no  manners  at  all.  And  the  very 
faces,  thought  Diana. 

Well,  she  could  not  stand  there  on  the  door  step.  She 
must  go  in.  She  turned  and  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door. 

The  little  room  within  was  empty.  It  was  a  tiny 
house  ;  the  ground  floor  boasted  only  two  rooms,  and  each 
of  those  was  small.  The  broad  hearth  of  flagstones  took 
up  a  third  of  the  floor  of  this  one.  A  fire  burned  in  the 
chimney,  though  the  day  was  so  warm  j  and  a  straight 
backed  arm  chair,  with  a  faded  cushion  in  it,  stood  by  the 
chimney  corner  with  a  bunch  of  knitting  lying  on  the 
cushion.  Diana  tapped  at  an  inner  door  at  her  right,  and 
then  getting  no  answer,  went  across  the  kitchen  and  opened 
another  opposite  the  one  that  had  admitted  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MOTHER     BARTLETT. 

THE  little  house,  unpainted  like  many  others,  had  no 
fenced  enclosure  on  this  side.  A  wide  field  stretched  away 
from  the  back  door,  lying  partly  upon  a  hillside  ;  and 
several  cattle  were  pasturing  in  it.  Farm  fields  and  mea- 
dows were  all  around  except  where  this  one  hill  rose  up 
behind  the  house.  It  was  wooded  at  the  top  ;  below,  the 
ranks  of  a  cornfield  sloped  aspiringly  up  its  base.  A  narrow 
footpath,  which  only  the  tread  of  feet  kept  free  from  weeds 
and  grass,  went  off  obliquely  to  a  little  enclosed  garden, 
which  lay  beyond  the  corner  of  the  house  in  some  arbitrary 
and  independent  way,  not  adjoining  it  at  all.  It  was  a 
sweet  bit  of  country,  soft  and  mellow  under  the  summer 
sun  ;  still  as  grasshoppers  and  the  tinkle  of  a  cowbell 
could  make  it  ;  and  very  far  from  most  pf  the  improve- 
ments of  the  nineteenth  century.  But  the  smell  of'the 
pasture  and  the  fragrance  that  came  from  the  fresh  shades 
of  the  wood,  and  the  freedom  of  the  broad  fields  of  pure 
ether,  made  it  rich  with  some  of  nature's  homely  wealth  ; 
which  is  not  by  any  means  the  worst  there  is.  Diana 
knew  the  place  very  well  ;  her  eyes  were  looking  now  for 
the  mistress  of  it.  And  not  long.  In  the  out-of-the-way 
lying  garden  she  discerned  her  white  cap ;  and  at  the  gate 
met  her  bringing  a  head  of  lettuce  in  her  hands. 

'  I  knew  you  liked  it,  dear,'  the  said,  '  and  I  had  forgot 
all  about  it  ;  and  then  it  flashed  on  me,  and  I  thought, 
Diana  will  like  to  have  it  for  her  dinner  ;  and  I  guess  it'll 


MOTHER   BARTLETT.  45 

have  time  to  cool.    Just  put  it  in  a  tin  pail,  dear,  and  hang 
it  down  in  the  well  ;  and  it'll  be  fresh.' 

This  was  done,  and  Diana  came  in  and  took  a  seat  by 
her  old  friend. 

'  You  needn't  do  that  for  me,  Mother  Bartlett.  I  don't 
care  what  I  have  to  eat.' 

'  Most  folks  like  what  is  good,'  said  the  old  lady ; 
'  suppos'n  they  know  it.' 

'Yes,  and  so  do  I,  but — ' 

'  I  made  a  pot-pie  for  ye,'  the  old  lady  went  on  con- 
tentedly. 

'  And  I  suppose  you  have  left  nothing  at  all  for  me  to 
do,  as  usual.  It  is  too  bad,  Mother  Bartlett.' 

'  You  shall  do  all  the  rest,'  said  her  friend  ;  '  and  now 
you  may  talk  to  me.' 

She  was  a  trim  little  old  woman,  not  near  so  tall  as  her 
visiter  ;  very  wrinkled,  but  fresh-skinned,  and  with  a 
quick  grey  eye.  Her  dress  was  a  common  working  dress 
of  some  dark  stuff ;  coarse,  but  tidy  and  nice  looking  ; 
her  cap  white  and  plain ;  she  sat  in  her  arm  chair,  setting 
her  little  feet  to  the  fire,  and  her  fingers  merrily  clicking 
her  needles  together  ;  a  very  comfortable  vision.  The 
kitchen  and  its  furniture  were  as  neat  as  a  pin. 

'  I  don't  see  how  you  manage,  Mother  Bartlett,'  Diana 
went  on,  glancing  around.  '  You  ought  to  have  some  one 
to  live  with  you  and  help  you.  It  looks  as  if  you  had  half 
a  dozen.' 

'  Not  much,'  said  the  old  lady  laughing.    '  A  half  dozen 
would  soon  make  a  muss,  of  one  sort  or  another.     There's 
nothin'  like  having  nobody.' 
'  But  you  might  be  sick.  ' 

'  I  might  be  ; — but  I  ain't,'  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  running 
one  end  of  a  knitting-needle  under  her  cap  and  looking 
placidly  at  Diana. 


46  DIANA. 

1  But  you  might  want  somebody.' 

'  When  I  do  I  send  for  'em.  I  sent  for  you  to-day, 
child,  and  here  you  are.' 

'  But  you  are  quite  well  to-day  ? '  said  Diana  a  little 
anxiously. 

'  I  am  always  well.     Never  better.' 

'  How  old  are  you,  Mother  Bartlett  ?  ' 

'  Seventy-three  years,  child.' 

'  Well,  I  do  think  you  oughtn't  to  be  here  alone.  It 
don't  seem  right,  and  I  don't  think  it  is  right.' 

'  What's  to  do  child  ?  There  ain't  nary  one  to  come 
and  live  with  me.  They're  all  gone  but  Joe.  My  Lord 
knows  I'm  an  old  woman  seventy-three  years  of  age.' 

'  What  then,  Mother  Bartlett  ?  '  Diana  asked  curiously. 

1  He'll  take  care  of  me,  my  dear.' 

'  But  then,  we  ought  to  take  care  of  ourselves,'  said 
Diana.  '  Now  if  Joe  would  marry  somebody — ' 

'  Joe  ain't  lucky  in  that  line,'  said  the  old  lady  laughing 
again.  'And  maybe  what  he  might  like,  I  mightn't.  Be- 
fore you  go  to  wishin'  for  changes,  you'd  better  know  what 
they'll  be.  I'm  content  child.  There  ain't  a  thing  on  earth 
I  want  that  I  haven't  got.  Now  what's  the  news  ?  ' 

Diana  began  and  told  her  the  whole  story  of  the  sewing 
meeting  and  the  accident  and  the  nursing  of  the  injured 
girl.  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  an  intense  interest  in  every  partic- 
ular ;  and  what  Diana  failed  to  remember,  her  questions 
brought  out. 

'  And  how  do  you  like  the  new  minister  ? ' 

'  Haven't  you  seen  him  yet  ? 

'  Nay.  He  hain't  been  down  my  way  yet.  In  good 
time  he  will.  He's  had  sick  folks  to  see  arter,  Joe  told 
me  ;  old  Jemmy  Claflin,  and  Joe  Simmons'  boy ;  and 
Mis'  Atwood,  and  Eliza.' 


MOTHER   BARTLETT.  47 

'  I  think  you'll  like  him,'  said  Diana  slowly.  '  He's  not 
like  any  minister  ever  /saw.' 

'  What's  the  odds  ? ' 

'  It  isn't  so  easy  to  tell.  He  don't  look  like  a  minister, 
for  one  thing  ;  nor  he  don't  talk  like  one  ;  jiot  a  bit.' 

'  Have  we  got  a  gay  parson,  then  ? '  said  the  old  lady, 
slightly  raising  her  eyebrows. 

'  Gay  ?  O  no  !  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  In  one  way 
he  is  gay  ;  he  is  very  pleasant ;  not  stiff  or  grum,  like  Mr. 
Hardenburgh  ;  and  he  is  amusing  too,  in  a  quiet  way,  but 
he  is  amusing  ;  he  is  so  cool  and  so  quick.  O  no,  he's 
not  gay  in  the  way  you  mean.  I  guess  he's  good.' 

'  Do  you  like  him  ? '  Mrs.  Bartlett  asked. 

'  Yes,'  said  Diana,  thinking  of  the  night  of  Eliza  Dela- 
mater's  accident.  '  He  is  very  queer.' 

'  I  don't  seem  to  make  him  out  by  your  telling,  child. 
I'll  have  to  wait,  I  guess.  I've  got  no  sort  of  an  ideji  of 
him,  so  far.  Now,  dear,  if  you'll  set  the  table — dinner's 
ready  ;  and  then  we'll  have  some  reading.' 

Diana  drew  out  a  small  deal  table  to  the  middle  of  the 
floor  and  set  on  it  the  delf  plates  and  cups  and  saucers, 
the  little  saltcellar  of  the  same  ware,  and  the  knives 
and  forks  that  were  never  near  Sheffield  ;  in  fact  were 
never  steel.  But  the  lettuce  came  out  of  the  well  crisp 
and  fresh  and  cool ;  and  Mrs.  Bartlett's  pot-pie  crust  came 
out  of  the  pot  as  spongy  and  light  as  possible ;  and  the 
loaf  of  'seconds  '  bread  was  sweet  as  it  is  hard  for  bread 
to  be  that  is  not  made  near  the  mill ;  and  if  you  and  I  had 
been  there,  I  promise  you  we  would  not  have  minded  the 
knives  and  forks  or  the  cups  either.  Mrs.  Bartlett's  tea 
was  not  of  corresponding  quality,  for  it  came  from  a  coun- 
try store.  However,  the  cream  went  far  to  mend  even 
that.  The  back  door  was  open  for  the  heat ;  and  the  hill- 


48  DIANA. 

side  could  be  seen  through  the  doorway  and  part  of  the 
soft  green  meadow  slope  ;  and  the  grasshopper's  song 
and  the  bell  tinkle  were  not  bad  music. 

'And  who  was  that  came  with  you,  dear?'  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett  asked  as  they  sat  at  table. 

'  With  me  ?     Did  you  see  me  come  ? ' 

'  Surely.  I  was  in  the  garden.  What  should  hinder 
me  ?  Who  was  it  druv  you,  dear  ? ' 

'  It  was  an  accident.  Young  Mr.  Knowlton  had  got 
into  some  trouble  with  his  horse,  riding  out  our  way,  and 
came  to  ask  how  he  could  get  home.  So  I  brought  him.' 

'That's  Evan  Knowlton?  him  they  are  making  a 
soldier  of  ? ' 

'  He's  made.  He's  done  with  his  education.  He  is  at 
home  now.' 

'  Ain't  goin'  to  be  a  soldier  after  all  ? ' 

|O  yes  ;  he  is  a  soldier";  but  he.  has  got  a  leave,  to  be 
home  for  awhile.' 

'  Well,  what  sort  is  he  ?  I  don't  see  what  they  wanted 
to  make  a  soldier  of  him  for ;  his  grand'ther  would  ha' 
been  the  better  o'  his  help  on  the  farm,  seems  to  me  ;  and 
now  he'll  be  off  to  the  ends  o'  the  earth,  and  doin'  nobody 
knows  what.  It's  the  wisdom  o'  this  world.  But  how  has 
he  turned  out,  Die  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  ;  well,  I  should  think.' 

'  And  his  sisters  at  home  would  ha'  been  the  better  of 
him.  By-and-by  Mr.  Bowdoin  will  die  ;  and  then  who'll 
look  after  the  farm,  or  the  girls  ? ' 

'  Still,  mother,  it's  something  more  and  something  bet- 
ter to  be  educated,  as  he  is,  and  to  know  the  world  and  all 
sorts  of  things,  as  he  does,  than  just  to  live  on  the  farm 
here  in  the  mountains,  and  raise  corn  and  eat  it,  and 
nothing  else  ?  Isn't  it  ? ' 


MOTHER   BARTLETT.  49 

'Why  should  it  be  better,  child  ?' 

'  It  is  nice  to  be  educated,'  said  Diana  softly.  And 
she  thought  much  more  than  she  said. 

'  A  man  can  get  as  much  edication  as  he  can  hold,  and 
live  on  a  farm  too.  I've  seen  sich.  Some  folks  can't  do 
no  better  than  hoe  corn — like  my  Joe.  But  there  ain't  no 
necessity  for  that.  But  arter  all,  what  does  folks  live  for, 
Diana  ? ' 

'I  never  could  make  out,  Mother  Bartlett' 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  and  wistfully, 
but  said  no  more.  Diana  cleared  the  table  and  washed 
the  few  dishes  ;  and  when  all  was  straight  again,  took  out 
a  newspaper  she  had  brought  from  home,  and  she  and  the 
old  lady  settled  themselves  for  an  afternoon  of  enjoyment. 
For  it  was  that  to  both  parties.  At  home  Diana  cared 
little  about  the  paper;  here  it  was  quite  another  thmg. 
Mrs.  Bartlett  wanted  to  hear  all  there  was  in  it ;  public 
doings,  foreign  doings,  city  news,  editor's  gossip  ;  and  even 
the  advertisements  came  in  for  their  share  of  pleasure- 
giving.  New  inventions  had  an  interest ;  tokens  of  the 
world's  movements,  or  the  world's  wants,  in  other  notices, 
were  found  suggestive  of  thought  or  provocative  of  wonder. 
Sitting  with  her  feet  put  towards  the  fire,  her  knitting  in 
her  hands,  the  quick  grey  eyes  studied  Diana's  face  as  she 
read,  never  needing  to  give  their  supervision  to  the  fingers  ; 
and  the  coarse  blue  yarn  stocking,  which  was  doubtless 
destined  for  Joe,  grew  visibly  in  length  while  the  eyes  and 
thoughts  of  the  knitter  were  busy  elsewhere.  The  news- 
paper filled  a  good  part  of  the  afternoon;  for  the  reading 
was  often  interrupted  for  talk  which  grew  out  of  it.  When 
at  last  it  was  done,  and  Mrs.  Bartlett's  eyes  returned  to 
the  fire,  there  were  a  few  minutes  of  stillness ;  then  she 
said  gently, 


5O  DIANA. 

'Now,  our  other  reading,  dear? ' 

'You  like  this  the  best,  Mother  Bartlett,  don't  you?' 
said  Diana,  as  she  rose  and  brought  from  the  inner  room 
a  large  volume ;  the  book,  as  any  one  might  know  at  a 
glance  ;  carefully  covered  with  a  sewn  cover  of  coarse 
cloth.  '  Where  shall  I  read  now  ? ' 

The  place  indicated  was  the  beginning  of  the  Revela- 
tion ;  a  favourite  book  with  the  old  lady.  And  as  she 
listened,  the  knitting  grew  slower  ;  though,  true  to  the  in- 
stinctive habit  of  doing  something,  the  fingers  never  ceased 
absolutely  their  work.  But  they  moved  slowly  ;  and  the 
old  lady's  eyes,  no  longer  on  the  fire,  went  out  of  the  open 
window,  and  gazed  with  a  far-away  gaze  that  went  surely 
beyond  the  visible  heaven  ;  so  rapt  and  steady  it  was. 
Diana,  sitting  on  a  low  seat  at  her  feet,  glanced  up  some- 
times ;  but  seeing  that  gaze,  looked  down  and  went  on 
again  with  her  reading  and  would  not  break  the  spell.  At 
last,  having  read  several  chapters  without  a  word  of  inter- 
ruption, she  stopped.  The  old  lady's  eyes  came  back  to 
her  knitting,  which  began  to  go  a  little  faster. 

'  Do  you  like  all  this  so  much  ? '  Diana  asked.  '  I  know 
you  do  ;  but  I  can't  see  why  you  do.  You  can't  under- 
stand it.' 

'  I  guess  I  do,'  said  the  old  lady.  '  I  seem  to,  anyhow. 
It's  queer  if  I  don't.' 

'  But  you  can't  make  anything  of  all  those  horses  ? ' 

'  Why  it's  just  what  you've  been  readin'  about  all  the 
afternoon.' 

'  In  the  newspaper  ! '  cried  Diana. 

'  It's  many  a  year  that  I've  been  lookin'  at  it,'  said  the 
old  lady  ;  '  ever  sen  I  heard  it  all  explained  by  a  good 
minister.  I've  been  lookin'  at  it  ever  sen.'  She  spoke 
dreamily. 


MOTHER  BARTLETT.  51 

'  It's  all  words  and  words  to  me,'  said  Diana. 

'  There's  a  blessin'  belongs  to  studyin'  them  words, 
though.  Those  horses  are  the  works  and  judgments  of 
the  Lord  that  are  goin'  on  in  all  the  earth,  to  prepare  the 
way  of  his  cominV 

'  Whose  coming  ? ' 

'  The  Lord's  comin','  said  the  old  lady  solemnly.  '  The 
white  horse,  that's  victory ;  that's  goin'  on  conquering  and 
to  conquer;  that's  the  truth  and  power  of  the  Lord 
bringin'  his  kingdom.  The  red  horse,  that's  war  ;  ah,  how 
that  red  horse  has  tramped  round  the  world !  he's  left  the 
marks  of  his  hoofs  on  our  own  ground  not  long  sen  ;  and 
now  you've  been  readin'  to  me  about  his  goin's  on  else- 
where. The  black  horse,  that's  famine  ;  and  not  down- 
right starvation,  the  minister  said,  but  just  want ;  grindin' 
and  pressin'  people  down.  Ain't  there  enough  o'  that  in 
the  world  ?  not  just  so  bad  in  Pleasant  Valley,  but  all  over. 
And  the  pale  horse — what  is  it  the  book  calls  him  ?  — 
that's  death  ;  and  he  comes  to  Pleasant  Valley  as  he  comes 
everywhere.  They  've  been  goin',  those  four,  ever  sen  the 
world  was  a  world  o'  fallen  men.' 

'  But  what  do  they  do  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  Lord's 
coming  ? '  said  Diana. 

'  What  do  I  know  ?  That  '11  be  known  when  the  book 
shall  come  to  be  read,  I  s'pose.  I'm  waitin'.  I'll  know 
by  and  by — ' 

'  Only  I  can  seem  to  see  so  much  as  this,'  the  old  lady 
went  on  after  a  pause.  '  The  Lord  won't  have  folk  to  settle 
down  accordin'  to  their  will  into  a  contented  forgetfulness 
o'  him  ;  so  he  won't  let  there  be  peace  till  the  King  o'  Peace 
comes.  Oh  I'd  be  glad  if  he  'd  come  ! ' 

'  But  that  will  be  the  end  of  the  world,'  said  Diana. 

1  Well,'  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  '  it  might  be  the  end  of  the 


52  DIANA. 

world  for  all  I  care  ;  if  it  would  bring  Him.  What  do  I 
live  for  ? ' 

'  You  know  I  don't  understand  you,  Mother  Bartlett,' 
said  Diana  gently. 

'  Well,  what  do  you  live  for,  child  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Diana  slowly.  '  Nothing.  I  help 
mother  make  butter  and  cheese ;  and  I  make  my  clothes, 
and  do  the  housework.  And  next  year  it  '11  be  the  same 
thing  ;  and  the  next  year  after  that.  It  don't  amount  to 
anything.' 

'  And  do  you  think  the  Lord  made  you — you  pretty 
creatur ! '  —  said  the  old  lady,  softly  passing  her  hand 
down  the  side  of  Diana's  face, —  'for  nothin'  better  than 
to  make  cheese  and  butter  ? ' 

Diana  smiled  and  blushed  brightly  at  her  old  friend,  a 
lovely  child's  smile. 

'  I  may  come  to  be  married,  you  know,  one  of  these 
days !  But  after  all  that  don't  make  any  difference.  It 's 
the  same  thing,  married  or  not  married.  People  all  do 
the  same  things,  day  after  day,  till  they  die.' 

'  If  that  was  all — '  said  the  old  lady  meditatively, 
looking  into  the  fire  and  knitting  slowly. 

'  It  is  all ;  except  that  here  and  there  there  is  some- 
body who  knows  more  and  can  do  something  better ;  I 
suppose  life  is  something  more  to  them.  But  they  are 
mostly  men.' 

'  Edication's  a  fine  thing,'  Mrs.  Bartlett  went  on  in  the 
same  manner  ;  '  but  there's  two  sorts.  There's  two  sorts, 
Diana.  I  hain't  got  much, — o'  one  kind ;  I  never  had 
no  chance  to  get  it,  so  I've  done  without  it.  And  now 
my  life's  so  near  done,  it  don't  seem  much  matter.  But 
there's  the  other  sort,  that  ain't  learned  at  no  'cademy. 
The  Lord  put  me  into  his  school  forty-four  years  ago  — 


MOTHER   BARTLETT.  53 

where  he  puts  all  his  children ;  and  if  they  learn  their 
lessons,  he  takes  'em  up  and  up, —  some  o'  the  lessons  is 
hard  to  learn, — but  he  takes  'em  up  and  up  ;  till  life  ain't 
a  puzzle  no  longer,  and  they  begin  to  know  the  language  o' 
heaven,  where  His  courts  be.  And  that's  edication  that's 
worth  havin',  —  when  one's  just  goin'  there,  as  I  be.' 

'  How  do  you  get  into  that  school,  Mother  Bartlett  ?  ' 
Diana  asked  thoughtfully,  and  yet  with  her  mind  not  all 
upon  what  she  was  saying, 

'  You  are  in  it,  my  dear.  The  good  Lord  sends  his 
lessons  and  his  teachers  to  every  cne  ;  but  it's  no  use  to 
most  folks  ;  they  won't  take  no  notice.' 

'  What  "  teachers  "  ?  '  said  Diana  smiling. 

'  There  's  a  host  of  them,'  said  Mrs.  Bartlett ; '  and  of 
all  sorts.  Why  I  seem  to  be  in  the  midst  of  'em,  Diana. 
The  sun  is  a  teacher  to  me  every  day  ;  and  the  clouds, 
and  the  air,  and  the  colours.  The  hill  and  the  pasture 
ahint  the  house, — I've  learned  a  heap  of  lessons  from  'em. 
And  I'm  learnin'  'em  all  the  time,  till  I  seem  to  be  rich 
with  what  they're  tellin'  me.  So  rich,  some  days  I  'most 
wonder  at  myself.  No  doubt,  to  hear  all  them  voices,  one 
must  hear  the  voice  o'  the  Word.  And  then  there's  many 
other  voices  ;  but  they  don't  come  just  so  to  all.  I  could 
tell  you  some  o'  mine  ;  but  the  ones  that'll  come  to  you'll 
be  sure  to  be  different ;  so  you  couldn't  learn  from  them, 
child.  And  folks  thinks  I'm  a  lonesome  old  woman  ! ' 

'  Well,  how  can  they  help  it  ? '  said  Diana. 

'  It's  nat'ral,'  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

'  I  can't  help  your  seeming  so  to  me.' 

'That  ain't  nat'ral,  for  you  had  ought  to  know  better. 
They  think,  folks  does,— I  know, — I'm  a  poor  lone  old 
woman,  just  going  to  die.' 

'  But  isn't  that  nearly  true  ? '  said  Diana  gently. 


54  DIANA. 

There  was  a  slight  glad  smile  on  the  withered  lips  as 
Mrs.  Bartlett  turned  towards  her. 

'You  have  the  book  there  on  your  lap,  dear.  Just  find 
the  eleventh  chapter  of  the  gospel  of  John,  and  read  the 
twenty-fifth  and  twenty-sixth  verses.  And  when  you  feel 
inclined  to  think  that  o'  me  agin,  just  wait  till  you  know 
what  they  mean.' 

Diana  found  and  read  ; — 

'  "  Jesus  said  unto  her,  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life :  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet 
shall  he  live.  And  whoesoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me, 
shall  never  die."  ' 


CHAPTER  V. 

MAKING   HAY. 

JUNE  had  changed  for  July  ;  but  no  heats  ever  withered 
the  green  of  the  Pleasant  Valley  hills,  nor  browned  its  pas- 
tures ;  and  no  droughts  ever  stopped  the  tinkling  of  its  rills 
and  brooks  which  rolled  down,  every  one  of  them,  over 
gravelly  pebbly  beds  to  lose  themselves  in  lake  or  river. 
Sun  enough  to  cure  the  hay  and  ripen  the  grain,  they  had  ; 
and  July  was  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  hayfield,  and 
lovely  with  brown  hayricks,  and  musical  with  the  whetting 
of  scythes.  Mrs.  Starling's  little  farm  had  a  good  deal  of 
grass  land  ;  and  the  haying  was  proportionally  a  busy  sea- 
son. For  haymakers,  according  to  the  general  tradition 
of  the  country,  in  common  with  reapers,  are  expected  to 
eat  more  than  ordinary  men,  or  men  in  ordinary  employ- 
ments ;  and  to  furnish  the  meals  for  the  day  kept  both 
Mrs.  Starling  and  her  daughter  busy. 

It  was  mid-afternoon,  sunny,  perfumed,  still ;  the  after- 
noon luncheon  had  gone  out  to  the  men,  who  were  cutting 
then  in  the  meadow  which  surrounded  the  house.  Diana 
found  her  hands  free ;  and  had  gone  up  to  her  room,  not 
to  rest,  for  she  was  not  tired,  but  to  get  out  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  kitchen  and  breathe  a  few  minutes  without 
thinking  of  cheese  and  gingerbread.  She  had  begun  to 
change  her  dress  ;  but  leisure  wooed  her,  and  she  took  up 
a  book  and  presently  forgot  even  that  care  in  the  delight 
of  getting  into  a  region  of  thought.  For  Diana's  book  was 


56  DIANA. 

not  a  novel ;  few  such  found  their  way  to  Pleasant  Valley, 
and  seldom  one  to  Mrs.  Starling's  house.  Her  father's" 
library  was  quite  unexhausted  still,  its  volumes  took  so 
long  to  read  and  needed  so  much  thinking  over  ;  and  now 
she  was  deep  in  a  treatise  more  solid  and  less  attractive 
than  most  young  women  are  willing  to  read.  It  carried  her 
out  of  the  round  of  daily  duties  and  took  her  away  from 
Pleasant  Valley  altogether,  and  so  was  a  great  refreshment. 
Besides,  Diana  liked  thinking. 

Once  or  twice  a  creak  of  a  farm  wagon  was  heard  along 
the  road ;  it  was  too  well  known  a  sound  to  awake  her  at- 
tention;  then  came  a  sound  far  less  common;  the  sharp 
trot  of  a  horse  moving  without  wheels  behind  him.  Diana 
started  instantly  and  went  to  a  window  that  commanded 
the  road.  The  sound  ceased,  but  she  saw  why  ;  the  rider 
had  reined  in  his  steed  and  was  walking  slowly  past ;  the 
same  rider  she  had  expected  to  see,  with  the  dark  uniform 
and  the  soldier's  cap.  He  looked  hard  at  the  place ; 
could  he  be  stopping  ?  The  next  moment  Diana  had  flown 
back  to  her  own  room,  had  dropped  the  dress  which  was 
half  off,  and  was  arraying  herself  in  a  fresh  print ;  and  she 
was  down  stairs  almost  as  soon  as  the  visiter  knocked. 
Diana  opened  the  door.  She  knew  Mrs.  Starling  was  deep 
in  supper  preparations,  mingled  with  provisions  for  the 
next  day's  lunches. 

Uniforms  have  a  great  effect,  to  eyes  unaccustomed  to 
them.  How  Lieut.  Knowlton  came  to  be  wearing  his 
uniform  in  the  country,  so  far  away  from  any  post,  I  don't 
know ;  perhaps  he  did.  He  said,  that  he  had  nothing  else 
he  liked  for  riding  in.  But  a  blue  frock,  with  gold  bars 
across  the  shoulders  and  military  buttons,  is  more  graceful 
than  a  frieze  coat.  And  it  was  a  gracious,  graceful  head 
that  was  bared  at  the  sight  of  the  door-opener. 


MAKING   HAY.  57 

*  You  see,'  he  said  with  a  smile,  '  I  couldn't  go  by ! 
The  other  day  I  was  your  pensioner,  in  kindness.  Now  I 
want  to  come  in  my  own  character,  if  you'll  let  me.' 

'  Is  it  different  from  the  character  I  saw  the  other  day  ? ' 
said  Diana,  as  she  led  the  way  into  the  parlour. 

'  You  did  not  see  my  character  the  other  day,  did 
you  ? ' 

'  I  saw  what  you  shewed  me  ! ' 

He  laughed,  and  then  laughed  again  ;  looking  a  little 
surprised,  a  good  deal  amused. 

'  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  know  what  you  thought 
of  me/ 

'  Why  would  you  ? '     Diana  said,  quite  quietly. 

'  That  I  might  correct  your  mistakes,  of  course.' 

'  Suppose  I  made  any  mistakes,'  said  Diana, '  you  could 
only  tell  me  that  you  thought  differently.  I  don't  see  that 
I  should  be  much  wiser.' 

'  I  find  I  made  a  mistake  about  you  ! '  he  said  laughing 
again,  but  shaking  his  head.  '  But  every  person  is  like  a 
new  language  to  those  that  see  him  for  the  first  time  ; 
don't  you  think  so  ?  One  has  to  learn  the  signs  of  the 
language  by  degrees,  before  one  can  read  it  off  like  a 
book.' 

'  I  never  thought  about  that,'  said  Diana.  '  No ;  I 
think  that  is  true  of  some  people  ;  not  everybody.  All  the 
Pleasant  Valley  people  seem  to  me  to  belong  to  one  lan- 
guage. All  except  one,  perhaps.' 

'  Who  is  the  exception  ? '  Mr.  Knowlton  asked 
quickly. 

'  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  him.' 

'  O  I  know  everybody  here — or  I  used  to.' 

'  I  was  thinking  of  somebody  who  didn't  use  to  be  here. 
He  has  only  just  come.  I  mean  Mr.  Masters.' 


58  DIANA. 

'  The  parson  ? ' 

<  Yes.' 

'  I  don't  know  him  much.  I  suppose  he  belongs  to  the 
parson  language,  to  carry  on  our  figure.  They  all  do.' 

'  He  don't,  said  Diana.  '  That  is  what  struck  me  in 
him.  What  are  the  signs  of  the  "  parson  "  language  ? ' 

'  A  black  coat  and  a  white  neckcloth,  to  begin  with.' 

'  He  dresses  in  gray,'  said  Diana  laughing,  '  or  in  white  ; 
and  wears,  any  sort  of  a  cravat.' 

'To  go  on, — Generally  a  grave  face  and  a  manner  of 
great  propriety  ;  with  a  square  way  of  arranging  words.' 

'  Mr.  Masters  has  no  manner  at  all  ;  and  he  is  one  of 
the  most  entertaining  people  I  ever  knew.' 

'  Jolly  sort,  eh  ? ' 

'  No,  I  think  not,'  said  Diana ;  '  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  you  mean  by  jolly ;  he  is  never  silly,  and  he  does  not 
laugh  much  particularly ;  but  he  can  make  other  people 
laugh.' 

'  Well,  another  sign  is,  they  put  a  religious  varnish  over 
common  things.  Do  you  recognize  that  ? ' 

'  I  recognize  that,  for  I  have  seen  it ;  but  it  isn't  true 
of  Mr.  Masters.' 

'  I  give  him  up,'  said  young  Knowlton.  '  I  am  sure  I 
shouldn't  like  him.' 

'  Why,  do  you  like  these  common  signs  of  the  "  parson 
language,"  as  you  call  it,  that  you  have  been  reckoning  ?' 

The  answer  was  a  decided  negative  accompanied  with 
a  laugh  again  ;  and  then  Diana's  visiter  turned  the  con- 
versation to  the  country,  and  the  place,  and  the  elm-trees ; 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  observed  that  the  haymakers 
were  at  work  near  the  house,  and  finally  said  he  must  go 
out  to  look  at  them  nearer ;  he  had  not  made  hay  since  he 
was  a  boy. 


MAKING    HAY.  $9 

He  went  out,  and  Diana  went  back  to  her  mother  in 
the  lean-to. 

'  Mother,  young  Mr.  Knowlton  is  here.' 

'  Well  keep  him  out  o'  my  way ;  that's  all  I  ask.' 

'  Haven't  you  got  through  yet  ?  ' 

'  Through  !  There  was  but  one  single  pan  of  ginger- 
bread left  this  noon  ;  and  there  ain't  more'n  three  loaves 
o'  bread  in  the  pantry.  What's  that  among  a  tribe  o'  such 
grampuses  ?  I've  got  to  make  biscuits  for  tea,  Di ;  and 
I  may  as  well  get  the  piecrust  off  my  hands  at  the  same 
time  ;  it'll  be  so  much  done  for  to-morrow.  I  wish  you'd 
pick  over  the  berries.  And  then  I'll  find  you  something 
else  to  do.  If  I  had  six  hands  and  two  heads,  I  guess  I 
could  about  get  along.' 

'  But  mother,  it  won't  do  for  nobody  to  be  in  the 
parlour.' 

'  I  thought  he  was  gone  ? ' 

'  Only  gone  out  into  the  field  to  see  the  haymakers.' 

1  Queer  company  ! '  .  said  Mrs.  Starling,  leaving  her 
bowl  of  dough,  with  flowery  hands,  to  peer  out  of  a  window. 
You  may  make  your  mind  easy,  Di ;  he  won't  come  in 
again  ;  I  declare  !  he's  got  his  coat  off  and  he's  gone  at  it 
himself  ;  ain't  that  him  ? ' 

Diana  looked  and  allowed  that  it  was.  Mr.  Knowlton 
had  got  a  rake  in  hand,  his  coat  hung  on  the  fence,  and  he 
was  raking  hay  as  busily  as  the  best  of  them.  Diana  gave 
a  little  sigh,  and  turned  to  her  pan  of  berries.  This  young 
officer  was  a  new  language  to  her,  and  she  would  have 
liked,  she  thought,  to  spell  out  a  little  more  of  its  graceful 
peculiarities.  The  berries  took  a  good  while.  Meantime 
Mrs.  Starling's  biscuit  went  into  the  oven,  and  a  sweet 
smell  began  to  come  thereout.  Mrs.  Starling  bustled  about 
setting  the  table  ;  with  cold  pork  and  pickles,  and  cheese 


60  DIANA. 

and  berry  pie,  and  piles  of  bread  brown  and  white.  Clearly, 
the  haymakers  were  expected  to  supper. 

'  Mother,'  said  Diana  doubtfully  when  she  had  washed 
her  hands  from  the  berry  stains,  'will  you  bring  Mr. 
Knowlton  out  here  to  tea,  if  he  should  possibly  stay  ? ' 

'  He's  gone,  child,  this  age.' 

*  No,  he  isn't.' 

'  He  ain't  out  yonder  any  more.' 

'  But  his  horse  stands  by  the  fence  under  the  elm.' 

'  I  wish  he  was  further,  then  !  Yes,  of  course  he'll 
come  here,  if  he  takes  supper  with  me  to-night.  I  don't 
think  he  will.  I  don't  know  him,  and  I  don't  know  as  I 
want  to.' 

But  this  vaguely  expressed  hope  was  disappointed.  The 
young  officer  came  in,  a  little  while  before  supper  ;  laugh- 
ingly asked  Diana  for  some  water  to  wash  his  hands  ;  and 
followed  her  out  to  the  lean-to.  There  he  was  introduced 
to  Mrs.  Starling,  and  informed  her  he  had  been  doing  her 
work,  begging  to  know  if  that  did  not  entitle  him  to  some 
supper.  I  think  Mrs.  Starling  was  a  little  sorry  then  that 
she  had  not  made  preparations  to  receive  him  more 
elegantly  •  but  it  was  too  late  now ;  she  only  rushed  a 
little  nervously  to  fetch  him  a  finer  white  towel  than  those 
which  usually  did  kitchen  duty  for  herself  and  Diana  ;  and 
then  the  biscuits  were  baked,  and  the  farm  hands  came 
streaming  in. 

There  were  several  of  them,  now  in  haying  time,  head- 
ed by  Josiah  Davis,  Mrs.  Starling's  ordinary  stand-by. 
Heavy  and  clumsy,  warm  from  the  hay  field,  a  little  awk- 
ward at  sight  of  the  company,  they  filed  in  and  dropped 
into  their  several  seats  round  one  end  of  the  table  ;  and 
Mrs.  Starling  could  only  play  all  her  hospitable  arts  around 
her  guest,  to  make  him  forget  if  possible  his  unwonted 


MAKING   HAY.  6 1 

companions.  She  served  him  assiduously  with  the  best  she 
had  on  the  table ;  she  would  not  bring  on  any  dainties 
extra  ;  and  the  young  officer  took  kindly  even  to  the  pork 
and  pickles,  and  declared  the  brown  bread  was  worth 
working  for ;  and  when  Mrs.  Starling  let  fall  a  word  of 
regretful  apology,  assured  her  that  in  the  times  when  he 
was  a  cadet  he  would  have  risked  getting  a  good  many 
marks  for  the  sake  of  such  a  meal. 

'What  are  the  marks  for?'  inquired  Mrs.  Starling 
curiously. 

'  Bad  boys,'  he  told  her ;  and  then  went  off  to  a  dis- 
cussion of  her  hay  crop,  and  a  dissertation  on  the  delights 
,of  making  hay  and  the  pleasure  he  had  had  from  it  that 
afternoon  ;  'something  he  did  not  very  often  enjoy.' 

'  Can't  you  make  hay  anywheres  ? '  Mrs.  Starling  asked 
a  little  dryly. 

He  gravely  assured  her  it  would  not  be  considered 
military. 

'  I  don't  know  wh'at  military  means,'  said  Mrs.  Starling. 
'  You  are  military,  ain't  you  ? ' 

'  Mean  to  be,'  he  answered  seriously. 

'  Well,  you  are.  Then,  I  should  think,  whatever  you 
do  would  be  military.' 

But  at  this  giving  of  judgment,  after  a  min-ute  of,  per- 
haps, endeavour  for  self-control,  Mr.  Knowlton  broke 
down  and  laughed  furiously.  Mrs.  Starling  looked  stern. 
Diana  was  in  a  state  of  indecision,  whether  to  laugh  with 
her  friend  or  frown  with  her  mother  ;  but  the  infection  of 
fun  was  too  much  for  her  ;  the  pretty  lips  gave  way.  May- 
be that  was  encouragement  for  the  offender ;  for  he  did 
not  show  any  embarrassment  or  express  any  contrition. 

'  You  do  me  too  much  honour,'  he  said  as  soon  as  he 
could  make  his  voice  steady ;  '  you  do  me  too  much  honour; 


62  DIAXA. 

Mrs.  Starling.  I  assure  you,  I  have  been  most  unmilitary 
this  afternoon  ;  but  really  I  am  no  better  than  a  boy  when 
the  temptation  takes  me ;  and  the  temptation  of  your 
meadow  and  those  long  winrows  was  too  much  for  me.  I 
enjoyed  it  hugely.  I  am  coming  again,  may  I  ?  ' 

'  You'll  have  to  be  quick  about  it  then,'  said  Mrs  Star- 
ling, not  much  mollified  ;  '  there  ain't  much  more  haying  to 
do  on  the  home  lot,  I  guess.  Ain't  you  most  done,  Josiah?' 

'  How  ? '  said  that  worthy  from  the  other  end  of  the 
table.  Mrs.  Starling  had  raised  her  voice,  but  Josiah's 
wits  always  wanted  a  knock  at  the  door  before  they  would 
come  forth  to  action. 

'  Hain't  you  'most  got  through  haying? ' 

'  Not  nigh.' 

'  Why  what's  to  do  ? '  inquired  the  mistress,  with  a  new 
interest. 

'There's  all  this  here  lot  to  finish,  and  all  of  Savin 
hill.' 

'  Savin  hill  ain't  but  half  in  grass.'' 

'  Jes'  so.     There  ain't  a  lock  of  it  cut,  though.' 

'  If  I  was  a  man,' — said  Mrs.  Starling,  '  I  believe  I 
could  get  the  better  o'  twenty  acres  o'  hay  in  less  time 
than  you  take  for  it.  However  I  ain't.  Mr.  Knowlton,  do 
take  one  o'  those  cucumbers.  I  think  there  ain't  a  green 
pickle  equal  to  a  cucumber — when  it's  tender  and  sharp, 
as  it  had  ought  to  be.' 

'  I  am  sure  everything  under  your  hands  is  as  it  ought 
to  be,'  said  the  young  officer,  taking  the  cucumber.  '  I 
know  these  are.  Your  haymakers  have  a  good  time,'  he 
added,  as  the  men  rose  and  there  was  a  heavy  clangour 
of  boots  and  grating  chairs  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table. 

'  They  calculate  to  have  it,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  And 
all  through  Pleasant  Valley  they  do  have  it.  There  are  no 


MAKING    HAY.  63 

poor  folks  in  the  place  ;  and  there  ain't  many  that  calls 
themselves  rich  ;  they  all  expect  to  be  comfortable  ;  and  I 
guess  most  of  'em  be.' 

'Just  the  state  of  society  in  which — There's  a  sweet 
little  stream  running  through  your  meadow,  Miss  Diana,' 
said  the  young  officer  with  a  sudden  change  of  subject. 
'  Where  does  it  go  to  ?  ' 

'  It  makes  a  great  many  turns,  through  different  farms, 
and  then  joins  your  river — the  Yellow  River — that  runs 
round  Elmfield.' 

'  That's  a  river  ;  this  brook  is  just  what  I  like.  I  got 
tired  with  my  labours  this  afternoon,  and  then  I  threw 
myself  down  by  the  side  of  the  water  to  look  at  it.  I  lay 
there  till  I  had  almost  forgotten  what  I  was  about.' 

'  Not  in  your  shirt  sleeves,  just  as  you  was  ? '  inquired 
Mrs.  Starling.  The  inquiry  drew  another  laugh  from  her 
guest ;  and  he  then  asked  Diana  where  the  brook  came 
from  ?  If  it  was  pretty,  followed  up  ? 

'  Very  pretty  ! '  Diana  said.  '  As  soon  as  you  get 
among  the  hills  and  in  the  woods  with  it,  it  is  as  pretty  as 
it  can  be  ;  not  a  bit  like  what  it  is  here  j  full  of  rocks  and 
pools  and  waterfalls  ;  lovely ! ' 

'  Any  fish  ? ' 

'  Beautiful  trout.' 

'Miss  Diana,  can  you  fish  ? ' 

'  No.     I  never  tried.' 

'  Well,  trout  fishing  is  not  exactly  a  thing  that  comes 
by  nature.  I  must  go  up  that  brook.  I  wish  you  would 
go  and  shew  me  the  way.  When  I  see  anything  pretty,  I 
always  want  some  one  to  point  it  out  to,  or  I  can't  half 
enjoy  it.' 

'  I  think  it  would  be  the  other  way,'  said  Diana.  '  I 
should  be  the  one  to  shew  the  brook  to  you.' 


64  DIANA. 

1  You  see  if  I  don't  make  you  find  more  pretty  things 
than  you  ever  knew  were  there.  Come !  is  it  a  bargain  ? 
I'll  take  my  line  and  bring  Mrs.  Starling  some  trout.' 

'  When  > '  said  Diana. 

'  Seems  to  me,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  '  I  could  keep  along 
a  brook  if  I  could  once  get  hold  of  it.' 

'  Ah,'  said  Mr.  Knowlton  laughing,  '  you  are  a  great 
deal  cleverer  than  I  am.  You  have  no  idea  how  fast  I  can 
lose  myself.  Miss  Diana,  the  sooner  the  better,  white  this 
lovely  weather  lasts.  Shall  we  say  to-morrow  ?' 

'  I'll  be  ready,'  said  Diana. 

'  This  weather  ain't  goin'  to  change  in  a  hurry,'  re 
•marked  Mrs.  Starling. 

But  the  remark  did  not  seem  to  be  to  the  purpose.  The 
appointment  was  made  for  the  following  day  at  three 
o'clock  ;  and  Mr.  Knowlton's  visit  having  come  to  an  end, 
he  mounted  and  galloped  away. 

'Three  o'clock!'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  'Just  the  heat 
o'  the  day.  And  trout,  indeed  !  Don't  you  be  a  silly  fish 
yourself,  Diana.' 

'  Mother ! '  said  Diana.  'I  couldn't  help  going,  when  he 
asked  me.' 

'  You  could  ha'  helped  it  if  you'd  wanted  to,  I  s'pose.' 

Which  was.no  doubt  true,  and  Diana  made  no  response; 
for  she  wanted  to  go.  She  watched  the  golden  promise  of 
dawn  the  next  morning ;  she  watched  the  cloudless  vault 
of  the  sky,  and  secretly  rejoiced  within  herself  that  she 
would  be  ready. 


CHAPTER   VI. 
MR.  KNOWLTON'S  FISH. 

DOUBTLESS  they  were  ready,  those  two,  for  the  brook 
and  the  afternoon.  The  young  officer  came  at  half  past 
three ;  not  in  regimentals  this  time,  but  in  an  easy  grey  un- 
dress and  straw  hat.  He  came  in  a  wagon,  and  he  brought 
his  fishing-rod  and  carried  a  basket.  Diana  had  been  ready 
ever  since  three.  They  lost  no  time  ;  they  went  out  into 
the  meadow  and  struck  the  brook. 

Now  the  brook,  during  its  passage  through  the  valley 
field,  was  remarkable  for  nothing  but  a  rare  infirmity  of 
purpose  which  would  never  let  it  keep  one  course  for  many 
rods  together.  It  twisted  and  curled  about,  making  many 
little  meadow  promontories  on  one  side  an  d  the  other  ; 
hurrying  along  with  a  soft  sweet  gurgle  that  sounded 
fresh,  even  under  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun.  It  was  a 
hot  afternoon,  as  Mrs.  Starling  had  said  ;  and  the  two 
excursionists  were  fain  to  take  it  gently  and  to  make  as 
straight  a  course  across  the  fields  as  keeping  on  one  side 
of  the  brook  left  possible.  They  could  not  cross  it.  The 
stream  was  not  large,  yet  quite  too  broad  for  a  jump  ;  and 
not  deep,  yet  deep  enough  to  cover  its  stony  bed  and 
leave  no  crossing  stones.  So  sometimes  along  the  border 
of  the  brook,  where  a  fringe  of  long  grass  had  been 
left  by  the  mowers'  scythes,  rank  and  tangled  ;  sometimes 
striking  across  from  bend  to  bend  over  the  meadow,  where 


66  DIANA. 

no  kindly  trees  stood  to  shade  them,  the  two  went ;  on  a 
hunt,  as  Mr.  Knowlton  said,  after  pretty  things. 

After  a  mile  or  more  of  this  walking,  the  scenery  changed. 
Mown  fields,  hot  and  fragrant,  were  left  behind ;  almost 
suddenly  they  entered  the  hills,  where  the  brook  issued 
from  them;  and  then  they  began  a  slower  tracking  of  its 
course  back  among  the  rocks  and  woods  of  a  dell  which 
soon  grew  close  and  wild.  The  sides  of  the  dell  became 
higher ;  the  bed  of  the  stream  more  steep  and  rough  ; 
the  canopy  of  trees  closed  in  overhead  and  shewed  the 
blue  through  only  in  broken  patches.  The  clothing  of  the 
hillsides  was  elegant  and  exquisite  ;  oaks  and  firs  and 
hemlocks,  with  slender  birches  and  maples,  lining  the 
ravine  ;  and  under  them  a  free  growth  of  ferns,  and  fresh 
beds  of  moss,  and  lovely  lichens,  covered  the  rocks  and 
dressed  the  ground.  The  stream  rattled  along  at  the  bot- 
tom; foaming  over  the  stones  and  leaping  down  the  rocks  ; 
making  the  still  deep  pools  where  the  fish  love  to  lie  ; 
and  in  its  way  executing  a  succession  of  cascades  and  tiny 
waterfalls  that  wanted  no  picturesque  element  except 
magnitude.  And  a  good  imagination  can  supply  that. 

And  how  went  the  afternoon  ?  How  goes  it  with  those 
who  have  just  received  a  new  sense,  or  found  a  sudden  doub- 
ling of  that  which  they  had  before  ?  Nay,  it  was  a  new  sense,  a 
new  power  of  perception,  able  to  discern  what  had  eluded 
all  their  previous  lives.  The  brook  in  the  meadow  had 
been  to  Diana's  vision  until  now  merely  running  water  ; 
whence  had  come  those  delicious  amber  hues,  where  it 
rolled  over  the  stones,  and  the  deep  olive  shadows  where 
the  water  was  deeper  ?  She  had  never  seen  them  before. 
Now,  they  were  pointed  out  and  seen  to  be  rich  and  clear, 
a  sort  of  dilution  of  sunlight,  with  a  suggestion  of  sun- 
light's other  riches  of  possibility.  The  rank  unmown 


MR.  KNOWLTON'S  FISH.  67 

grass  that  fringed  the  stream,  Diana  had  never  seen  it  but 
as  what  the  scythe  had  missed  ;  now  she  was  made  to  no- 
tice what  an  elegant  fringe  it  was,  and  how  the  same  sun- 
light glanced  upon  its  curving  stems  and  blades  and  set 
off  the  deep  brown  stream.  Diana's  own  eyes  began  to 
be  quickened,  and  her  tongue  loosed.  The  lovely  outline 
of  the  hills  that  encircled  the  valley  had  never  looked  just 
so  rare  and  lovely  as  this  afternoon  when  she  pointed  them 
out  to  her  companion,  and  he  scanned  them  and  nodded 
in  full  assent.  But  when  they  got  into  the  ravine,  it  was 
Diana's  turn.  Mosses,  and  old  trees,  and  sharp  turns  of 
the  gorge,  and  fords,  where  it  was  necessary  to  cross  the 
brook  and  recross  on  stepping  stones  just  lifting  them 
above  the  water,  here  black  enough,  Diana  knew  all  these 
things  ;  and  with  secret  delight  unfolded  the  knowledge  of 
them  to  her  companion  as  they  went  along.  And  still  the  bits 
of  blue  sky  overhead  had  never  seemed  so  unearthly  blue ; 
the  drapery  of  oak  and  hemlock  boughs  had  never  been 
so  graceful  and  bright ;  there_  was  a  presence  in  the  old 
gorge  that  afternoon,  which  went  with  them  and  cleared 
their  eyes  from  vapour  and  their  minds  from  everything,  it 
seemed,  but  a  susceptibility  to  beauty  and  delight  in  its  in- 
fluence. Perhaps  the  young  officer  would  have  said  that 
this  presence  was  embodied  in  the  unconscious  eyes  and 
fair  calm  brow  which  went  beside  him  ;  I  think  he  saw 
them  more  distinctly  than  anything  else.  Diana  did  not 
know  it.  Somehow  she  very  rarely  looked  her  companion 
in  the  face ;  and  yet  she  knew  very  well  how  his  face  look- 
ed too  ;  so  well  perhaps  that  she  did  not  need  to  refresh 
her  memory.  So  they  wandered  on  ;  and  the  fords  were 
pleasant  places,  where  she  had  to  be  helped  over  the 
^stones.  Not  that  Diana  needed  such  help  ;  her  foot  was 
fearless  and  true ;  she  never  had  had  help  there  before ; 


68  DIANA. 

was  that  what  made  it  so  pleasant  ?  Certainly  it  did  seem 
to  her  that  it  was  a  prettier  way  of  going  up  the  brook  than 
alone  and  unaided. 

'  I  am  not  getting  much  fish  at  this  rate,'  said  young 
Knowlton  at  length  with  a  light  laugh. 

'  No,'  said  Diana.  '  Why  don't  you  stop  and  try  here  ? 
Here  looks  like  a  good  place.  Right  in  that  still,  deep 
spot,  I  dare  say  there  are  trout.' 

'  What  will  you  do  in  the  mean  time,  if  I  stop  and  fish  ? 
it  will  be  very  stupid  for  you.' 

'  For  me  ?  O  no.  I  shall  sit  here  and  look  on.  It  will 
not  be  stupid.  I  will  keep  still,  never  fear.' 

'  I  don't  want  you  to  keep  still ;  that  would  be  very 
stupid  for  me.' 

'  You  can't  talk  while  you  are  fishing ;  it  would  scare 
the  trout,  you  know.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it.' 

'  I  have  always  heard  so.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it  will  pay,'  said  Knowlton  as  he  fitted 
his  rod — '  If  I  am  to  purchase  trout  at  the  expense  of  all 
that — ' 

All  what,  Diana  wondered? 

'  Suppose  we  talk  very  softly — in  whispers,'  he  went  on 
laughing.  '  Do  you  suppose  the  trout  are  so  observant  as  to 
mind  it  ?  If  you  sit  here, — on  this  mossy  stone,  close  by 
me,  can't  I  enjoy  two  things  at  once  ? ' 

Diana  made  no  objection  to  this  arrangement.  She 
took  the  place  indicated,  full  of  a  breathless  kind  of  pleasure 
which  she  did  not  stop  to  analyze ;  and  watched  in  silence  the 
progress  of  the  fishing.  In  silence,  for  after  Mr.  Knowlton's 
arrangement  had  been  carried  into  effect,  he  too  subsided 
into  stillness  ;  whether  engrossed  with  the  business  of  his 
line,  or  satisfied,  or  with  thoughts  otherwise  engaged,  did  not 


MR.  KNOWLTON'S  FISH.  69 

appear.  But  as  presently  and  again  a  large  trout, -speckled, 
and  beautiful,  was  swung  up  out  of  the  pool  below,  the  two 
faces  were  turned  towards  each  other  and  the  two  pairs  of 
eyes  met  with  a  smile  of  so  much  sympathy  that  I  rather 
think  the  temporary  absence  of  words  lost  nothing  to  the 
growth  of  the  understanding  between  them. 

The  place  where  they  sat  was  lovely.  Just  there  the 
bank  was  high,  overhanging  the  brook.  A  projecting 
rock,  brown  and  green  and  grey,  with  lichen  and  mosses  of 
various  kinds,  held  besides  a  delicate  young  silver  birch, 
the  roots  of  which  found  their  way  to  nourishment  some- 
how through  fissures  in  the  rock.  Here  sat  Knowlton,  with 
Diana  beside  him  on  a  stone,  just  a  little  behind  ;  while  he 
sat  on  the  brink  to  cast,  or  rather  drop,  his  line  into  the 
little  pool  below  where  the  trout  were  lurking.  The  oppo- 
site side  of  the  stream  was  but  a  few  yards  off,  thick  with 
a  lovely  growth  of  young  wood,  with  one  great  hemlock 
not  far  above  towering  up  towards  the  sky.  The  view  in 
that  direction  went  up  a  vista  of  the  ravine,  so  wood-fringed 
on  both  sides,  with  the  stream  leaping  and  tumbling  down 
a  steep  rocky  bed.  Overhead  the  narrow  line  of  blue 
sky. 

'  Four ! '  whispered  Diana,  as  another  spotted  trout 
came  up  from  the  pool. 

'  I  wonder  how  many  there  are  down  there  ? '  said 
Knowlton  as  he  unhooked  the  fish.  '  It  makes  me  hun- 
gry-' 

'  Catching  the  trout  ? '  said  Diana  softly. 

He  nodded.  '  Here  comes  another.  I  wish  we  could 
make  a  fire  somewhere  hereabouts  and  cook  them.' 

'  Is  that  a  good  way  ? ' 

'  The  best  in  the  world,'  he  said  adjusting  his  fly,  and 
then  looking  with  a  smile  at  her.  '  There  is  no  way  that 


7O  DIAXA. 

fish  taste  so  good.  I  used  to  do  that,  you  see,  in  the  hills 
round  about  the  Academy  ;  and  I  know  all  about  it.' 

'  We  could  make  a  fire,'  said  Diana ;  '  but  we  have  no 
gridiron  here.' 

'  I  had  no  gridiron  there.  Couldn't  have  carried  a  grid- 
iron in  my  pocket  if  I  had  had  one.  Here's  another — ' 

'You  had  not  a  gridiron  of  course.' 

'  Nor  a  pocket  either.' 

'  But  did  you  eat  the  trout  all  alone  ?  without  bread,  I 
mean,  or  anything  ? ' 

'  No  ;  we  took  bread  and  salt  and  pepper  and  butter  and 
a  few  such  things.  There  were  generally  a  lot  of  us  ;  or 
if  only  two  or  three  we  could  manage  that.  The  butter 
was  the  worst  thing  to  accomplish — Here's  another  ! ' 

'  Such  beauties  ! '  said  Diana.  'Well  Mr.  Knowlton,  if 
you  get  too  hungry,  we'll  cook  you  one  at  home,  you 
know.' 

'  Will  you  ? '  said  he.  '  I  wish  we  had  salt  and  bread 
here  !  I  should  like  to  shew  you  how  wood  cookery  goes, 
though.  But  I'll  tell  you  !  we'll  get  Mrs.  Starling  to  let 
us  have  it  out  in  the  meadow — that  won't  be  bad.'  . 

Diana  thought  of  her  mother's  utter  astonishment  and 
disapprobation  at  such  a  proposal  ;  and  there  was  silence 
again  for  a  few  minutes,  while  the  line  hung  motionless 
over  the  pool,  and  Diana's  eyes  watched  it  movelessly, 
and  the  liquid  sweetness  of  the  water's  talk  with  the  stones 
was  heard, — as  one  hears  things  when  the  senses  are  strung 
to  double  keenness.  Diana  heard  it  at  least,  and  listened  to 
something  in  it  she  had  never  perceived  before;  something 
not  only  sweet  and  liquid  and  musical,  but  in  some  odd 
sense  admonitory.  What  did  it  say  ?  Diana  hardly  ques- 
tioned, but  yet  she  heard. — "  My  peace  never  changes. 
My  song  never  dies.  Listen,  or  not  listen,  it  is  all  the 


MR.    KNOWLTON  S    FISH.  /I 

same.  You  may  be  in  twenty  moods  in  a  year.  In  my 
depth  of  content  I  flow  on  forever." — 

A  slight  rustling  of  leaves,  a  slight  crackling  of  stems 
or  branches,  brought  the  eyes  of  both  watchers  in  another 
direction  ;  and  before  they  could  hear  a  footfall  they  saw, 
above  them  on  the  course  of  the  brook,  a  figure  of  a  man 
coming  towards  them,  and  Diana  knew  it  was  the  minister. 
Swiftly  and  lightly  he  came  swinging  himself  along,  bound- 
ing over  obstacles,  with  a  sure  foot  and  a  strong  hand  ;  till 
presently  he  stood  beside  them.  Just  then  Mr.  Knowlton's 
line  was  swung  up  with  another  trout.  Diana  introduced 
the  gentlemen  to  each  other. 

'  Fishing  ? '  said  the  minister. 

'  We  have  got  all  there  are  in  this  place,  I'm  thinking,' 
said  Knowlton,  shutting  up  his  rod. 

'  You  ^z// not,  two  minutes  ago,'  said  the  other.  'What 
do  you  judge  from?  It  doesn't  do,  to  be  so  easily  discour- 
aged as  that.' 

'  Discouraged  ? '  said  Knowlton.  '  Not  exactly.  Let  us 
see.  Four,  five,  six — seven, — eight.  Eight,  out  of  this 
little  one  pool,  Mr.  Masters.  Do  you  think  there  are  any 
more?' 

'  I  always  get  all  I  can  out  of  a  thing,'  said  the  minister. 
And  his  very  cheery  tone,  as  well  as  his  very  quiet  manner, 
seemed  to  say  he  was  in  the  habit  of  getting  a  good  deal, 
out  of  everything. 

'  I  don't  know  about  that,'  answered  the  young  officer 
in  another  tone.  '  Doesn't  always  pay.  To  stay  too  long 
at  one  pool  of  a  brook,  for  instance.  The  brook  has 
other  pools,  I  suppose.' 

'1  suppose  it  has,'  said  the  minister,  with  a  manner 
which  would  have  puzzled  any  but  one  that  knew  him,  to 
tell  whether  he  were  in  jest  or  earnest.  '  I  suppose  it  has. 


72  DIANA. 

But  you  may  not  find  them.  Or  by  the  time  you  do,  you 
may  have  lost  your  bait.  Or  you  may  be  tired  of  fishing. 
Or  it  may  be  time  to  go  home.' 

'  I  am  never  tired,'  said  Knowlton  springing  up ;  '  and 
I  have  got  a  guide  that  will  not  let  me  miss  my  way.' 

'  You  are  fortunate,'  said  the  other.  '  And  I  will  not 
occupy  your  time.  Good  afternoon !  I  shall  hope  to  see 
more  of  you.' 

With  a  warm  grasp  of  the  young  officer's  hand  and 
lifting  his  hat  to  Diana,  the  minister  went  on  his  way. 
Diana  looked  after  him  wondering  why  he  had  not  shaken 
hands  with  her  too.  It  was  something  she  was  a  little 
sorry  to  miss. 

'  Who  is  that  ? '  Knowlton  asked. 

'  Mr.  Masters  ?     He's  our  minister.' 

'  What  sort  of  a  chap  is  he  ?  Not  like  all  the  rest  of  them  ? ' 

'  How  are  all  the  rest  of  them  ?  '  Diana  asked. 

'  I  declare,  I  don't  know  ! '  said  Knowlton.  '  If  I  was 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  should  say  they  puzzle  all  my  wits.  See 
'em  in  one  place — and  hear '  em — and  you  would  say  they 
thought  all  the  business  of  this  world  was  of  no  account, 
nor  the  pleasure  of  it  either.  See  'em  anywhere  else,  and 
they  are  just  as  much  of  this  world  as  you  are — or  as  I  am, 
I' mean.  They  change  as  fast  as  a  chameleon.  In  the 
light  that  comes  through  a  church  window,  now,  they'll  be 
blue  enough,  and  make  you  think  blue's  the  only  wear  ; 
or  black  ;  but  once  outside,  and  they  like  the  colour  that 
comes  through  a  glass  of  wine  or  anything  also  that's  jolly. 
One  thing  or  the  other  they  don't  mean — that's  plain.' 

'  Which  do  you  think  they  don't  mean  ? '  said  Diana. 

'  Well,  they're  two  or  three  hours  in  church,  and  the  rest 
of  the  week  outside.  I  believe  what  they  say  the  rest  of 
the  time.' 


MR.    KNOWLTON'S    FISH.  73 

'  I  don't  think  Mr.  Masters  is  like  that.' 

'  What  is  he  like,  then  ? ' 

'  I  think  he  mean-s  exactly  what  he  says.' 

'  Exactly/  said  the  young  officer  laughing  ;  '  but  which 
part  of  the  time,  you  know  ? ' 

'  All  times.  I  think  he  means  just  the  same  thing  al- 
ways.' 

'  Must  see  more  of  him,'  said  Knowlton.  '  You  like 
him,  then,  Miss  Starling  ? ' 

Diana  did  like  him,  and  it  was  quite  her  way  to  say 
what  she  thought ;  yet  she  did  not  say  it.  She  had  an  un- 
defined shadowy  impression  that  the  hearing  would  not  be 
grateful  to  her  companion.  Her  reply  was  a  very  incon- 
clusive remark,  that  she  had  not  seen  much  of  Mr.  Masters ; 
and  an  inquiry,  where  Mr.  Knowlton  meant  to  fish 
next  ? 

So  the  brook  had  them  without  interruption  the  rest  of 
the  time.  They  crept  up  the  ravine,  under  the  hemlock 
branches  and  oak  boughs ;  picking  their  way  along  the 
rocky  banks  ;  catching  one  or  two  more  trout  and  finding 
an  unending  supply  of  things  to  talk  about ;  while  the  air 
grew  more  delicious  as  the  day  dipped  towards  evening, 
and  the  light  flashed  from  the  upper  tree  tops  more  clear 
and  sparkling  as  the  rays  came  more  slant  ;  and  the  brook's 
running  commentary  on  what  was  going  on,  like  so  many 
other  commentaries,  was  heard  and  not  heeded ;  until  the 
shadows  deepening  in  the  dell  warned  them  it  was  time  to 
seek  the  lower  grounds  and  open  fields  again.  Which  they 
did,  much  more  swiftly  than  the  ascent  of  the  brook  had  been 
made  ;  in  great  spirits  on  both  sides,  though  with  a  thought 
on  Diana's  part,  how  her  mother  would  receive  the  fish  and 
the  young  officer's  proposition.  Mrs.  Starling  was  stand- 
ing at  the  back  door  of  the  kitchen  as  they  came  up  to  it. 


74  DIANA. 

'  I  should  think,  Diana,  you  knew  enough  to  remember 
that  we  don't  take  visiters  in  at  this  end  of  the  house,'  was 
her  opening  remark. 

'  How  about  fish  ? '  inquired  Mr.  KnowltOn,  bringing 
forward  his  basket. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  '  em  ? '  asked  Mrs. 
Starling,  standing  in  the  door  as  if  she  meant  he  should  not 
come  in. 

'We  are  going  to  eat  them — with  your  leave  ma'am, 
and  by  your  help ; — and  first  we  are  going  to  cook  them.' 

'  Who  ? ' 

'Miss  Starling  and  myself.  I  have  promised  to  shew 
her  a  thing.  May  I  ask  for  the  loan  of  a  match  ? ' 

'  A  match  ! '  echoed  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Or  two,'  added  Mr.  Knowlton,  with  an  indescribable 
twinkle  in  his  eye  ;  indescribable  because  there  was  nothing 
contrary  to  good  breeding  in  it.  All  the  more,  Diana  felt 
the  sense  of  fun  it  expressed  ;  and  hastened  to  change  the 
scene  and  put  an  end  to  the  colloquy.  She  threw  down 
her  bonnet  and  went  for  a  handful  of  sticks.  Mr.  Knowl- 
ton had  got  his  match  by  this  time.  Mrs.  Starling  stood 
astonished  and  scornful. 

'  Will  this  be  wood  enough  ? '  Diana  asked. 

Mr.  Knowlton  replied  by  taking  the  sticks  out  of  her 
hand,  and  led  the  way  into  the  meadow.  Diana  followed, 
very  quiet  and  flushed.  He  had  not  said  a  word ;  yet  the 
manner  of  that  little  action  had  a  whole  small  volume  in  it. 
4  Nobody  else  ever  cared  whether  I  had  sticks  in  my  hands 
or  not,' — thought  Diana;  and  she  flushed  more  and  more. 
She  turned  her  face  away  from  the  bright  West,  which 
threw  too  much  illumination  on  it;  and  looked  down  into 
the  brook.  The  brook's  song  sounded  now  unheard. 

It  was  on  the  border  of  the  brook  that  Lieut.  Knowlton 


MR.  KNOWLTON'S  FISH.  75 

made  his  fire.  He  was  in  a  very  jubilant  sort  of  mood. 
The  fire  was  made  and  the  fish  were  washed  ;  and  Diana 
stood  by  the  column  of  smoke  in  the  meadow  and  looked 
on,  as  still  as  a  mouse.  And  Mrs.  Starling  stood  in  the 
door  of  the  lean-to  and  looked  on  too,  from  a  distance  \ 
and  if  she  was  still,  it  was  because  she  had  no  one  near 
just  then,  to  whom  it  was  safe  to  open  her  mind.  The 
beauty  of  the  picture  was  all  lost  upon  her :  the  shorn 
meadow,  the  soft  column  of  ascending  smoke  coloured  in 
dainty  hues  from  the  glowing  western  sky,  the  two  figures 
moving  about  it. 

'  Now,  Miss  Diana,'  said  the  young  officer,  '  if  we  had 
a  little  salt,  and  a  dish — I  am  afraid  to  go  and  ask  Mrs. 
Starling  for  them  ! ' 

Perhaps,  so  was  she ;  but  Diana  went,  and  got  them 
without  asking.  She  smiled  at  the  dishing  of  the  trout,  it 
was  so  cleverly  done ;  then  she  was  requested  to  sprinkle 
salt  on  them  herself ;  and  then  with  a  satisfied  air,  which 
somehow  called  up  a  flush  in  Diana's  cheeks  again,  Mr. 
Knowlton  marched  off  to  the  house  with  the  dish  in  his 
hands.  Mrs.  Starling  had  given  her  farm  labourers  their 
supper,  and  was  clearing  away  relics  from  the  board.  She 
made  no  move  of  welcome  or  hospitable  invitation ;  but 
Diana  hastened  to  remove  the  traces  of  disorder,  and  set 
clean  plates  and  cups,  and  bring  fresh  butter,  and  bread, 
and  make  fresh  tea.  How  very  pleasant,  and  how  ex- 
tremely unpleasant,  it  was  altogether  ! 

'Mother,'  she  said,  when  all  was  ready,  'won't  you 
come  and  taste  Mr.  Knowlton's  fish  ? ' 

'  I  guess  I  know  how  fish  taste.  I  haven't  eaten  the 
trout  of  that  brook  all  my  life,  without.' 

'  But  you  don't  know  my  cookery,'  said  Mr.  Knowlton ; 
'  thafs  something  new.' 


76  DIANA. 

'  I  don't  see  the  sense  of  doing  things  in  an  outlandish 
way,  when  you  have  no  need  to.  Nor  I  don't  see  why 
men  should  cook,  as  long  as  there's  women  about.' 

'  What  is  outlandish  ? '  inquired  Mr.  Knowlton. 

'  What  you've  been  doing,  I  should  say.' 

'  Come  and  try  my  cookery,  Mrs.  Starling  ;  you  will 
never  say  anything  against  men  in  that  capacity  again.' 

'  I  never  say  anything  against  men  anyhow ;  only 
against  men  cooking  ;  and  that  ain't  natural.' 

'  It  comes  quite  natural  to  me,'  said  the  young  officer. 
*  Only  taste  my  trout,  Mrs.  Starling ;  and  you  will  be  quite 
reconciled  to  me  again.' 

'  I  ain't  quarrelling  with  nobody — fur's  I  know,'  said 
Mrs.  Starling  •  'but  I've  had  my  supper.' 

'  Well,  we  haven't  had  ours,'  said  the  young  man  ;  and  he 
set  himself  not  only  to  supply  that  deficiency  in  his  own 
case,  but  to  secure  that  Diana  should  enjoy  and  eat  hers 
in  spite  of  all  hindrances.  He  saw  that  she  was  wofully 
annoyed  by  her  mother's  manner ;  it  brought  out  his  own 
more  in  contrast  than  perhaps  otherwise  would  have  been. 
He  helped  her,  he  coaxed  her,  he  praised  the  trout,  and 
the  tea,  and  the  bread,  and  the  butter  ;  he  peppered  and 
salted  anew,  when  he  thought  it  necessary,  on  her  own 
plate  ;  and  he  talked  and  told  stories  and  laughed  and 
made  her  laugh,  till  even  Mrs.  Starling  moving  about  in 
the  pantry,  moved  softly  and  set  down  the  dishes  carefully 
that  she  too  might  hear.  Diana  sometimes  knew  that  she 
did  so  ;  at  other  times  was  fain  to  forget  everything  but  the 
glamour  of  the  moment.  Trout  were  disposed  of  at  last 
however,  and  the  remainder  was  cold  ;  bread  and  butter 
had  done  its  duty ;  and  Mr.  Knowlton  rose  from  table. 
His  adieux  were  gay  ;  quite  unaffected  by  Mrs.  Starling's 
determined  holding  aloof;  and  involuntarily  Diana  stood 


MR.    KNOWLTON  S   FISH.  77 

by  the  table  where  she  could  look  out  of  the  window,  till 
she  had  seen  him  mount  into  his  wagon  and  go  off. 

'  Have  you  got  through  ? '  said  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Supper  ? '  said  Diana  starting.     '  Yes,  mother.' 

'  Then  perhaps  I  can  have  a  chance  now.  Do  you 
think  there  is  anything  in  the  world  to  do  ?  or  is  it  all 
done  up,  in  the  world  you  have  got  into  ? ' 

Diana  began  clearing  away  the  relics  of  the  trout  sup- 
per, in  silence  and  with  all  haste. 

'  That  ain't  all,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  The  house  don't 
stand  still  for  nobody,  nor  the  world,  nor  things  generally. 
The  sponge  has  got  to  be  set  for  the  bread ;  and  there's 
the  beans,  Diana  ;  to-morrow's  the  day  for  the  beans  ;  and 
they  ain',t  looked  over  yet,  nor  put  in  soak.  And  you'd 
better  get  out  some  codfish  and  put  that  on  the  stove.  I 
don't  know  what  to  have  for  breakfast  if  I  don't  have  that. 
You'd  best  go  and  get  off  your  dress,  first  thing  ;  that's  my 
counsel  to  ye;  and  save  washing  that  to-morrow.' 

Diana  went  into  no  reasoning,  on  that  subject  or  any 
other  ;  but  she  managed  to  do  all  that  was  demanded  of 
her  without  changing  her  dress,  and  yet  without  damaging 
its  fresh  neatness.  In  silence,  and  in  an  uncomfortable 
mute  antagonism  which  each  one  felt  in  every  movement 
of  the  other.  Odd  it  is,  that  when  words  for  any  reason 
are  restrained,  the  feeling  supposed  to  be  kept  back  mani- 
fests itself  in  the  turn  of  the  shoulders  and  the  set  of  the 
head,  in  the  putting  down  of  the  foot  or  the  raising  of  the 
hand,  nay,  in  the  harmless  movements  of  pans  and  kettles. 
The  work  was  done,  however,  punctually,  as  always  in  that 
house  ;  though  Diana's  feeling  of  mingled  resentment  and 
shame,  grew  as  the  evening  wore  on.  She  was  glad  when 
the  last  pan  was  lifted  for  the  last  time,  the  key  turned  in 
the  lock  of  the  door  of  the  lean-to,  and  she  and  her  mother 


78  DIANA. 

moved  into  the  other  part  of  the  house,  preparatory  to 
seeking  their  several  rooms.  But  Mrs.  Starling  had  not 
done  her  work  yet. 

'When's  that  young  man  comin'  again?'  she  asked 
abruptly  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  stopping  to  trim  the 
wick  of  her  candle,  and  looking  into  the  light  without 
winking. 

'  I  don't  know  ' — Diana  faltered.  '  I  don't  know  that 
he  is  ever  coming  again.' 

'  Don't  expect  him  either,  don't  you  ? ' 

'I  think  it  would  be  odd  if  he  didn't,'  said  Diana 
bravely,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

'Odd?  why?' 

Diana  hesitated  longer  this  time,  and  the  words  did  not 
come  for  her  waiting. 

'  Why  odd  ? '  repeated  Mrs.  Starling  sharply. 

'When  people  seem  to  like  a  place — they  are  apt  to 
come  again,'  said  Diana,  flushing  a  little. 

'  Seem  to,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  'Now,  Diana,  I  have  just 
this  one  thing  to  say.  Don't  you  go  and  give  that  young 
fellow  no  encouragement.' 

'  Encouragement !  mother,'  repeated  Diana. 

'  Yes,  encouragement.  Don't  you  give  him  any.  Mind 
my  words.  'Cause  if  you  do,  I  won't ! ' 

'  But  mother  ! '  said  Diana,  '  what  is  there  to  encourage? 
I  could  not  help  going  to  shew  the  brook  to  him  to-day.' 

'You  couldn't,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  beginning  to  mount 
the  stairs.  '  Well,  it  is  good  to  practise.  Suppose'n  he  asked 
you  to  let  him  shew  you  the  Mississippi — or  the  Pacific 
Ocean  ;  couldn't  you  help  that  ? ' 

'  Mother,  I  am  ashamed  ! '  said  poor  Diana.  '  Just 
think.  He  is  educated,  and  has  every  advantage,  and  is 
an  officer  in  the  United  States  army  now ;  and  what 'am  I  ? ' 


MR.  KNOWLTON'S  FISH.  79 

'  Worth  three  dozen  of  him,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  decided- 

iy- 

'  He  wouldn't  think  so,  mother,  nor  anybody  else,  but 
you.' 

'Well,  /think  so,  mind,  and  that's  enough.  I  ain't  a 
goin'  to  give  you  to  him,  not  if  he  was  fifty  officers  in  the 
United  States  army.  So  keep  my  words,  Diana,  and  mind 
what  I  say.  I  never  will  give  you  to  him,  nor  to  any  other 
man  that  calls  himself  a  soldier  and  looks  down  upon  folks 
that  are  better  than  he  is.  I  won't  let  you  marry  him  ;  so 
don't  you  go  and  tell  him  you  will.' 

*  He  won't  ask  me,  mother.  You  make  me  ashamed  ! ' 
said  Diana,  with  her  cheeks  burning  ,  'but  I  am  sure  he 
does  not  look  down  upon  me.' 

'  Nobody  shall  marry  you  that  sets  himself  up  above 
me,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  as  she  closed  her  door.  '  Mind  ! ' 

And  Diana  went  into  her  own  room,  and  shut  her  door, 
and  sat  clown  to  breathe.  '  Suppose  he  should  ask  you  to 
let  him  shew  you  the  Mississippi,  or  the  Pacific  ? '  And  the 
hot  flush  rushed  over  her  and  she  hid  her  face,  as  if  even 
from  herself.  '  He  will  not.  But  what  if  he  should  ? ' 
Mrs.  Starling  had  raised  the  question.  Diana,  in  very 
maidenly  shame  tried  to  beat  it  down  and  stamp  the  life 
out  of  it.  But  that  was  more  than  she  could  do. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BELLES   AND    BLACKBERRIES. 

IN  the  first  flush  of  Diana's  distress  that  night  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  the  sight  of  Lieut.  Knowlton  in  all  time 
to  come  could  but  give  her  addition-al  distress.  How  could 
she  look  at  him  ?  But  the  clear  morning  light  found  her 
nerves  quiet  again,  and  her  cheeks  cool ;  and  a  certain 
sweet  self-respect  in  which  she  held  herself  always,  for- 
bade any  such  flutter  of  vanity  or  stir  even  of  fancy,  as 
could  in  any  wise  ruffle  the  simple  dignity  of  this  country 
girl's  manner.  She  had  no  careful  mother's  training,  or 
father's  watch  and  safeguard ;  the  artificial  rules  of  pro- 
priety were  still  less  known  to  her ;  but  innate  purity  and 
modesty,  and,  as  I  said,  the  poise  of  a  true  New  England 
self-respect,  stood  her  in  better  stead.  When  Diana  saw 
Mr.  Knowlton  the  next  time,  she  was  conscious  of  no  dis- 
composure ;  and  he  was  struck  with  the  placid  elegance  of 
manner,  formed  in  no  school,  which  was  the  very  out- 
growth of  the  truth  within  her.  His  own  manner  grew 
•unconsciously  deferential.  It  is  the  most  flattering  homage 
a  man  can  render  a  woman. 

Mrs.  Starling  had  delivered  her  mind,  and  thereafter 
she  was  content  to  be  very  civil  to  him.  Further  than  that 
a  true  record  cannot  go.  The  young  officer  tried  to  nego- 
tiate himself  into  her  good  graces  ;  he  was  attentive  and 
respectful  and  made  himself  entertaining.  And  Mrs.  Starl- 


BELLES    AND    BLACKBERRIES.  8 1 

ing  was  entertained  and  entertained  him  also  on  her  part ; 
and  Diana  watched  for  a  word  of  favourable  comment  or 
better  judgment  of  him  when  he  was  gone.  None  ever 
came  ;  and  Diana  sometimes  sighed  when  she  and  her 
mother  had"  shut  the  doors,  as  that  night,  upon  each  other. 
For  to  her  mind  the  favourable  comments  rose  unasked 
for. 

He  came  very  often,  on  one  pretext  or  andther.  He 
began  to  be  very  much  at  home.  His  eye  used  to  meet 
her's,  as  something  he  had  been  looking  for  and  had  just 
found  ;  and  the  lingering  clasp  of  his  hand  said  the  touch 
was  pleasant.  Generally  their  interviews  were  in  the  par- 
lour of  Diana's  home  ;  sometimes  he  contrived  an  occasion 
to  get  her  to  drive  with  him,  or  to  walk ;  and  Diana  never 
found  that  she  could  refuse  herself  the  pleasure  or  .need 
refuse  it  to  him.  The  country  was  so  thinly  settled  and 
their  excursions  had  as  yet  been  in  such  lonely  places, 
that  no  village  eyes  or  tongues  had  been  aroused. 

So  the  depth  of  August  came.  The  two  were  standing 
one  moonlight  night  at  the  little  front  gate,  lingering  in 
the  moonlight.  Mr.  Knowlton  was  going,  and  could  not 

go- 

'  Have  you  heard  anything  about  the  Bear  hill  party  ? ' 
he  asked  suddenly. 

'  O  yes  ;  Miss  Delamater  came  here  a  week  ago  to 
speak  about  it.' 

'  Are  you  going  ? ' 

'  Mother  said  she  would.     So  I  suppose  I  shall.' 

'  Where  is  it  ?  and  what  is  it  ? ' 

'  The  place  ?  Bear  hill  is  a  very  wild,  stony,  bare  hill,—- 

at  least  one  side  of  it  is  bare  ;  the  other  side  is  covered 

with  trees.     And  the  bare  side  is  covered  with  blackberry 

bushes  j  the  largest  you  ever  saw  ;  and  the  berries  are  the 

6 


82  DIANA. 

largest.  We  always  go  there  every  summer,  a  number  of 
us  out  of  Pleasant  Valley,  to  get  blackberries.' 

'  How  far  is  it  ? ' 

'Fifteen  miles.' 

'That's  a  good  way  to  go  a  blackberry  ing/  said  the 
young  man  smiling.  '  People  hereabouts  must  be  very 
fond  of  that  fruit.' 

'  We  want  them  for  a  great  many  uses,  you  know  ;  it 
isn't  just  to  eat  them.  Mother  makes  jam  and  wine  for 
the  whole  year,  besides  what  we  eat  at  once.  And  we  go 
for  the  fun  too,  as  well  as  for  the  berries.' 

'  So  it  is  fun,  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  think  so.  We  make  a  day  of  it ;  and  everybody  car- 
ries provisions  ;  and  we  build  a  fire,  and  it  is  very  pleas- 
ant.' 

'  I'll  go/  said  Mr.  Knowlton.  '  I  have  heard  something 
about  it  at  home.  They  wanted  me  to  drive  them,  but  I 
wanted  to  know  what  I  was  engaging  myself  to.  Well,  I'll 
be  there,  and  I'll  take  care  our  wagon  carries  its  stock  of 
supplies  too.  Thursday,  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  believe  so.' 

'  What  time  shall  you  go  ? ' 

'  About  eight  o'clock — or  half-past/ 

*  Eight  1*  said  the  young  officer.  '  I  shall  have  to  revive 
Academy  habits.  I  am  grown  lazy.' 

'  The  days  are  so  warm,  you  know/  D-i-ana  explained  ; 
'and  we  have  to  come  home  early.  We  always  have  dinner 
between  twelve  and  one.' 

'I  see!'  said  the  young  man.  'I  see  the  necessity, 
and  feel  the  difficulty.  Well,  I'll  be  there.' 

He  grasped  her  hand  again;  they  had  shaken  hands 
before  he  left  the  house,  Diana  remembered  ;  and  this  time 
he  held  her  fingers  in  a  light  clasp  for  some  seconds  after 


BELLES   AND    BLACKBERRIES.  83 

it  was  time  to  let  them  go.  Then  he  turned  and  sprang 
upon  his  horse  and  went  off  at  a  gallop.  Diana  stood  still 
at  the  gate  where  he  had  left  her,  looking  down  the  road 
and  listening  to  the  diminishing  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs. 
The  moonlight  streamed  tenderly  down  upon  her  and  the 
elm  trees  ;  it  filled  the  empty  space  where  Knowlton's 
figure  had  been  ;  it  flickered  where  the  elm  branches  stir- 
red lightly  and  cast  broken  shadows  upon  the  ground  ;  it 
poured  its  floods  of  effulgence  over  the  meadows  and 
distant  hills,  in  still  moveless  peace  and  power  of  everlast- 
ing calm.  It  was  one  of  the  minutes  of  Diana's  life  that  she 
never  forgot  afterwards  ;  a  point  where  her  life  had  stood 
still — still  as  the  moonlight ;  and  almost  as  sweet  in  its 
broad  restfulness.  She  lingered  at  the  gate,  and  came 
slowly  back  again  into  the  house. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  take  to  Bear  hill,  mother  ? '  in- 
quired Diana  the  next  day. 

'  I  don't  know !  I  declare,  I'm  'most  tired  of  picnics  ; 
they  cost  more  thar  they  come  to.  If  we  could  tackle  up 
now,  and  go  off  by  ourselves,  early  some  morning,  and  get 
what  we  want — there'd  be  some  fun  in  that.' 

'  It's  a  very  lonely  place,  mother.' 

'  That's  what  I  say.  I'm  tired  o'  livin'  forever  in  a  crowd.' 

'  But  you  said   you'd  go  ? ' 

'Well  ;  I'm  goin'.' 

'  Then  we  must  take  something.' 

'  Well ;  I'm  goin'  to.     I  calculated  to  take  something.' 

1  What  ? ' 

'  Somethin'  'nother  nobody  else'll  take — if  I  could  con- 
trive what  that'd  be.' 

'  Well,  mother,  I  can  tell  you.  Somebody'll  be  sure  to 
carry  cake  ;  and  pies  ;  and  cold  ham  •  and  cheese  ;  and 
bread  and  butter  ;  and  cold  chicken.  All  that's  sure.' 


84  DIANA. 

'  Exactly.  I  could  have  told  you  as  much,  myself, 
Diana.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  somethin'  nobody'll  take. 

'  Green  corn  to  boil,  mother  ? ' 

'  Well !  '  said  Mrs.  Starling  musing, — '  that  ts  an  idea. 
How'd  you  boil  it  ? ' 

'  Must  take  a  pot — or  borrow  one.' 

'Borrow!  Not  I,  from  any  o' the  Bear  hill  folks.  I 
couldn't  eat  corn  out  o'  their  kettles.  It's  a  sight  o'  trouble 
anyhow,  Diana.' 

'  Then,  mother,  suppose  I  make  a  chicken-pie  ? ' 

'  Do  what  you've  a  mind  to,  child.  And  there  must  be 
a  lot  o'  coffee  roasted.  I  declare,  if  I  wasn't  clean  out  o' 
blackberry  wine,  I'd  cut  the  whole  concern.  There'll  be 
churning  just  ready  Thursday  ;  and  Josiah  had  ought  to  be 
sent  off  to  mill ;  we're  'most  out  o'  flour  ;  and  he  can't  go 
to-morrow,  for  he's  got  to  see  to  the  fence  round  the  fresh 
pasture  lot.  And  I  want  to  clean  the  kitchen  this  week. 
There's  no  sittin'  still  in  this  world,  I  do  declare  !  I  haven't 
set  a  stitch  in  those  gowns  o'  mine  since  last  Friday,  neither ; 
and  Society  comes  here  next  week.  And  if  I  don't  catch 
Josiah  before  he  goes  out  to  work  in  the  morning  and  get 
the  stove  cleaned  out — the  flues  are  all  choked  up — it'll  drive 
me  out  o'  the  house  or  out  o'  my  mind,  with  the  smoke ;  and 
Bear  hill  won't  come  off  then/ 

Bear  hill  did  "  come  off  "  however.  Early  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Thursday,  Josiah  might  be  seen  loading  up  the  little 
green  wagon  with  tin  kettles  and  baskets,  both  empty  and 
full.  Ears  of  corn  went  in  too,  for  the  "  idee  "  had  struck 
Mrs.  Starling  favourably  ;  and  an  iron  pot  found  its  way 
into  one  corner.  Breakfast  was  despatched  in  haste  ;  the 
house  locked  up  and  the  key  put  under  the  door-stone  for 
Josiah  to  find  at  noon  ;  and  the  two  ladies  mounted  and 
drove  away,  while  the  morning  light  was  yet  fresh  and  cooi 


BELLES    AND    BLACKBERRIES.  85 

and  the  shadows  of  the  trees  lay  long  in  the  meadow. 
August  mornings  and  evenings  were  seldom  hotter  than 
was  agreeable  in  Pleasant  Valley. 

For  some  miles  the  road  lay  through  the  region  so 
denominated.  Then  it  entered  the  hills ;  and  soon  the 
way  led  over  them,  up  and  down  steep  ascents  and  pitches, 
with  a  green  woodland  on  each  side  and  often  a  look-out 
over  some  Tittle  meadow  valley  of  level  fields  and  cultivation 
bordered  and  encircled  by  more  hills.  The  drive  was  a 
silent  one  ;  Mrs.  Starling  held  the  reins  ;  and  perhaps  they 
gave  her  thoughts  employment  enough  ;  Diana  was  musing 
about  another  wagonful  and  wondering  whereabouts  it 
was.  Till  at  a  turn  of  the  road  she  discerned  behind  them, 
at  some  distance,  a  vehicle  coming  along,  and  knew  with  a 
jump  of  her  heart  the  colour  of  the  horse  and  the  figure  of 
the  driver.  Even  so  far  off  she  was  sure  of  them,  and 
turned  her  sunbonnet  to  look  straight  forward  again,  hoping 
that  her  mother  might  not  by  any  chance  give  a  look  back. 
She  did  not  herself  again  ;  but  Diana's  ears  were  watching 
all  the  while  after  that  for  the  sound  of  hoofs  or  wheels 
coming  near ;  and  her  eyes  served  her  to  see  nothing  but 
what  was  out  of  her  field  of  vision.  The  scenery  grew  by 
degrees  rough  and  wild  ;  cultivation  and  civilization  seemed 
as  they  went  on  to  fall  into  the  rear.  A  village,  or  hamlet, 
of  miserable,  dirty,  uncomely  houses  and  people,  was  passed 
by ;  and  at  last,  just  as  the  morning  was  wakening  up  into 
fervour,  Mrs.  Starling  drew  rein  in  a  desolate  rough  spot  at 
the  edge  of  a  woodland.  The  regular  road  had  been  left 
some  time  before,  since  when  only  an  uncertain  wheel  track 
had  marked  the  way.  Two  or  three  farm  wagons  already 
stood  at  the  place  of  meeting  ;  nobody  was  in  them ;  the 
last  comer  was  just  hitching  his  horse  to  a  tree. 

'  Here's   Mis'  Starling,'   he  called   out.     '  Good  day  ! 


86  DIANA. 

good-day  to  'ye.  Hold  on,  Mis'  Starling — I'll  fetch  him  up. 
Coin'  to  conquer  all  Bear  Hill,  ain't  ye,  with  all  them  pails 
and  kettles.  Wall  —  blackberries  ain't  ripe  but  once  in  the 
year.  I've  left  all  my  business  to  attend  upon  the  women 
folks.  What's  blackberries  good  for,  now,  when  you've  got 
'em  ? ' 

'  Don't  you  like  a  blackberry  pie,  Mr.  Selden  ? ' 

'  Bless  you  !' said  the  farmer,  'I  kin  live  without  it; 
'  but  my  folks  can't  live  'thout  comin'  once  a  year  to  Bear 
Hill.  It  is  a  wonder  to  me,  why  things  warn't  so  ordered 
as  that  folks  could  get  along  'thout  eatin'.  It'd  save  a 
sight  o'  trouble.  Why,  Mis'  Starlin',  we're  workin'  all 
the  time  to  fill  our  stomachs  ;  come  to  think  of  it,  that's 
pretty  much  what  life  is  fur.  Now  I'll  warrant  you,  they'll 
have  a  spread  by  and  by,  that'll  be  worth  all  they'll  get 
here  to-day.' 

1  Who's  come,  Mr.  Selden  ? ' 

'  Wall,  they  ain't  all  here  yet,  I  guess ;  my  folks  is  up 
in  the  lot,  hard  to  work,  I  s'pose.  Mis'  Seelye's  gals  is  here  ; 
and  Bill  Howe  and  his  wife  ;  and  the  Delamaters ;  that's 
all,  I  guess.  He's  safe  now,  Mis'  Starlin'.' 

This  last  remark  had  reference  to  the  horse,  which 
farmer  Selden  had  been  taking  out  of  the  shafts  and  teth- 
ering, after  helping  the  ladies  down.  Mrs.  Starling  got  out 
her  pails  and  baskets  destined  for  the  berry  picking  and 
gave  some  of  them  to  her  daughter. 

'  They'll  be  all  flocking  together,  up  in  the  thickest  part 
of  the  lot,'  she  whispered.  '  Now,  Diana,  if  you'll  sheer  off  a 
little,  kind  o',  and  keep  out  o'  sight,  you'll  have  a  ventur' ; 
and  we  can  stand  a  chance  to  get  home  early  after  dinner. 
I'll  go  along  ahead  and  keep  'em  from  comin'  where  you 
are — if  I  can.' 

Diana  heard,  with  tingling  ears  ;  for  she  heard  at  the 


BELLES    AND    BLACKBERRIES.  8/ 

same  time  the  sound  of  the  approaching  wagon  behind  her. 
She  did  not  look  ;  she  caught  up  her  pail  and  basket  and 
plunged  into  the  wood  path  after  her  mother  and  Mr. 
Selden  ;  but  she  had  not  gone  three  yards  when  she  heard 
her  name  called. 

'  You  are  not  going  to  desert  us  ? '  cried  young  Knowl- 
ton  coming  up  with  her.  '  We  don't  know  a  step  of  the  way, 
nor  where  to  find  blackberries  or  anything.  I  have  been 
piloting  myself  all  the  way  by  your  wagon.  Come  back 
and  let  me  make  you  friends  with  my  sister.' 

Blushing  and  hesitating,  Diana  had  yet  no  choice.  She 
followed  Mr.  Knovvlton  back  to  the  clearing,  and  looked 
on,  feeling  partly  pleased  and  partly  uncomfortable,  while 
he  helped  from  their  wagon  the  ladies  he  had  driven  to 
the  picnic.  The  first  one  dismounted  was  a  beautiful 
vision  to  Diana's  eyes.  A  trim  little  figure,  robed  in  a 
dress  almost  white,  with  small  crimson  clusters  sprinkled 
over  it ;  coral  buckle  and  earrings ;  a  wide  Leghorn  hat 
with  red  ribbons ;  and  curly,  luxuriant,  long,  floating 
waves  of  hair.  She  was  so  pretty,  and  her  attire  was  so 
graceful,  and  had  so  jaunty  a  style  about  it,  that  Diana 
was  struck  somehow  with  a  fresh  though  very  undefined 
feeling  of  uneasiness.  She  turned  to  the  other  lady.  Very 
pretty,  she  was  too  ;  smaller  even  than  the  first  one ;  with 
delicate,  piquant  features  and  a  ready  smile.  Daintily  she 
also  was  dressed  in  some  stuff  of  deep  green  colour,  which 
set  her  off  as  its  encompassing  foliage  does  a  bunch  of  cher- 
ries. Her  face  looked  out  almost  like  one,  it  was  so  bloom- 
ing, from  the  shadow  of  a  green  silk  sunbonnet ;  and  her 
hands  were  cased  in  green  kid  gloves.  Her  eyes  sought  Diana. 

'  My  sister,  Mrs.  Reverdy, '  said  young  Knowlton  eager- 
ly, leading  her  forward.  '  Miss  Starling,  Genevieve  ;  you 
know  who  Miss  Starling  is.' 


88  DIANA. 

The  little  lady's  answer  was  most  gracious  ;  she  smiled 
winningly  and  grasped  Diana's  hand,  and  was  delighted  to 
know  her.  '  And  we  are  so  glad  to  meet  you  ;  for  we  are 
strangers  here,  you  know.  I  never  was  at  Bear  Hill  in  my 
life,  but  they  told  us  of  wonderful  blackberries  here  and 
such  multitudes  of  them  ;  and  we  persuaded  Evan  to 
drive  us  ;  you  know  we  don't  often  have  him  to  do  any- 
thing for  us  ;  so  we  came  ;  but  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  have  done  if  we  had  not  met  you.  Gertrude  and  I 
thought  we  would  come  and  see  what  a  picnic  on  Bear 
Hill  meant.'  And  she  laughed  again  ;  smiles  came  very 
easily  to  her  pretty  little  face.  And  then  she  introduced 
Miss  Masters.  Knowlton  stood  by,  looking  on  at  them  all. 

'  These  elegant  women  ! '  thought  Diana  •  l  what  must 
I  seem  to  him  ? '  And  truly  her  print  gown  was  of  homely 
quality  and  country  wear  ;  she  did  not  take  into  the  account 
a  fine  figure,  which  health  and  exercise  had  made  free  and 
supple  in  all  its  movements,  and  which  the  quiet  poise  of 
her  character  made  graceful,  whether  in  motion  or  rest. 
For  grace  is  no  gift  of  a  dancing  master  or  result  of  the 
schools.  It  is  the  growth  of  the  mind  more  than  of  the 
body ;  the  natural  and  almost  necessary  symbolization  in 
outward  lines  of  what  is  noble,  simple,  and  free  from 
self ;  and  not  almost  but  quite  necessary,  if  the  further  con- 
ditions of  a  well  made  and  well  jointed  figure  and  a  free  and 
unconstrained  habit  of  life,  are  not  wanting.  The  condi- 
tions all  met  in  Diana  ;  the  harmony  of  development  was,  as 
it  always  is,  lovely  to  see. 

But  a  shadow  fell  on  her  heart  as  she  turned  to  lead  the 
way  through  the  wood  to  the  blackberry  field.  For  in  the 
artistic  elegance  of  the  ladies  beside  her,  she  thought  she 
recognized  somewhat  that  belonged  to  Mr.  Knowlton's 
sphere  and  not  to  her  own ;  something  that  removed  her 


BELLES   AND    BLACKBERRIES.  89 

from  him  and  drew  them  near;  she  thought  he  could  not 
fail  to  find  i-t  so.  What  then  ?  She  did  not  ask  herself 
what  then.  Indeed  she  had  no  leisure  for  difficult  analysis 
of  her  thoughts. 

'  Dear  me,  how  rough  ! '  Mrs.  Reverdy  exclaimed. 
'  Really,  Evan,  I  did  not  know  what  you  were  bringing  us 
to.  Is  it  much  further  we  have  to  go  ? ' 

'  It  is  all  rough,'  said  Diana.  '  You  ought  to  have 
thick  shoes.' 

'  O,  I  have  !  I  put  on  horridly  thick  ones, — look  !  Isn't 
that  thick  enough  ?  But  I  never  felt  anything  like  these 
stones.  Is  the  blackberry  field  full  of  them  too  ?  Really, 
Evan,I  think  I  cannotget  along  if  you  don't  give  me  your  arm.' 

'You  have  two  arms,  Mr.  Knowlton — can't  I  have  the 
other  one  ? '  cried  Miss  Masters  dolefully. 

'  I  have  got  trees  on  my  other  arm,  Gatty — I  don't  see 
where  I  should  put  you.  Can't  you  help  Miss  Starling 
along,  till  we  get  out  of  the  woods  ? ' 

'  Isn't  it  very  impertinent  of  him  to  call  me  Gatty  ? '  said 
the  little  beauty  tossing  her  long  locks  and  speaking  in  a 
half  aside  to  Diana.  '  Now  he  would  like  that  I  should  re- 
turn the  compliment  and  call  him  Evan ;  but  I  won't.  What 
do  you  do,  when  men  call  you  by  your  Christian  name  ? ' 

She  was  trying  to  read  Diana  as  she  spoke,  eyeing 
her  with  sidelong  glances  ;  and  as  they  went,  laying  her 
daintily  gloved  hand  on  Diana's  arm  to  help  herself  along. 
Diana  was  astounded  both  at  her  confidence  and  at  her  re- 
quest for  council ;  but  as  to  meet  the  request  \vould  be  to 
return  the  confidence,  she  was  silent.  She  was  thinking 
too  of  the  elegant  little  boot  Mrs.  Reverdy  had  displayed, 
and  contrasting  it  with  her  own  coarse  shoes.  And  how 
very  familiar  these  two  were,  that  he  should  speak  to  her 
by  her  first  name  so  ! 


9O  DIANA. 

'  Miss  Starling  ? '  cried  the  other  lady  behind  her, — 
'  do  you  know  we  have  been  following  your  lead  all  the 
way  we  were  coming  this  morning? ' 

'  Mr.  Knowlton  said  so/  Diana  replied,  half  turning. 

'  Aren't  you  very  much  flattered  ? ' 

This  time  Diana  turned  quite,  and  faced  the  two. 

'  My  mother  was  driving,  Mrs.  Reverdy.' 

'  Ah  ? '  said  the  other  with  a  very  amused  laugh.  '  But 
you  could  have  done  it  just  as  well,  I  suppose.' 

What  does  she  mean  ?  thought  Diana. 

'  Can  you  do  anything  ? '  inquired  the  gay  lady  on  her 
arm.  '  I  am  a  useless  creature ;  I  can  only  fire  a  pistol, 
and  leap  a  fence  on  horseback,  and  dance  a  polka.  What 
can  you  do  ?  I  dare  say  you  are  worth  a  great  deal  more 
than  me.  Can  you  make  butter  and  bread  and  pudding 
and  pies  and  sweetmeats  and  pickles,  and  all  that  sort  ot 
thing  ?  I  dare  say  you  can.' 

'  I  can  do  that.' 

'  And  all  I  am  good  for  is  to  eat  them  !  I  can  do  that. 
Do  you  make  cheeses  too  ? ' 

'  I  can.     My  mother  generally  makes  the  cheese.' 

'  O  but  I  mean  you.  What  do  people  do  on  a  farm  ? 
women  I  mean.  I  know  what  the  men  do.  You  know  all 
about  it.  Do  you  have, to  milk  the  cows  and  feed  every- 
thing ? — chickens  and  pigs,  you  know,  and  all  that? ' 

'  The  men  milk,'  said  Diana. 

'  And  you  have  to  do  those  other  things  ?  Isn't  it 
horrid  ? ' 

'  It  is  not  horrid  to  feed  the  chickens.  I  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  pigs.' 

'  O  but  Evan  says  you  know  how  to  harness  horses.' 

Does  he  ?  thought  Diana. 

'  And  you  can  cut  wood  ? ' 


BELLES    AND    BLACKBERRIES.  QI 

'  Cut  wood ! '  Diana  repeated.  '  Did  anybody  say  I 
could  do  that  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know — Yes,  I  think  so.  I  forget.  But  you 
can,  can't  you  ? ' 

'  I  never  tried,  Miss  Masters.' 

'  Do  you  know  my  cousin,  Mr.  Masters  ?  the  minister, 
you  know  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  know  him  a  little.' 

'  Do  you  like  him  ? ' 

'  I  like  him, — yes,  I  don't  know  anything  against  him,' 
said  Diana  in  great  bewilderment. 

'  O  but  I  do.  Don't  you  know  he  says  it  is  wicked  to 
do  a  great  many  things  that  we  do  ?  he  thinks  everybody 
is  wicked  who  don't  do  just  as  he  does.  Now  I  don  t 
think  everybody  is  bound  to  be  a  minister.  He  thinks  it 
is  wicked  to  dance  ;  and  I  don't  care  to  live  if  I  can't 
dance.' 

'  That  is  being  very  fond  of  it,'  said  Diana. 

'  Do  you  dance,  here  in  the  country  ? ' 

'  Sometimes  ;  not  very  often.' 

'  Isn't  it  very  dull  here  in  the  winter  ?  when  you  can't 
go  after  blackberries  ?  ' 

Diana  smiled.  '  I  never  found  it  dull,'  she  said. 
Nevertheless,  the  contrast  smote  her  more  and  more,  be- 
tween what  Mr.  Knowlton  was  accustomed  to  in  his  world, 
and  the  very  plain  humdrum,  uneventful,  unadorned  life 
she  led  in  hers.  And  this  elegant  creature,  whose  very 
dress  was  a  sort  of  revelation  to  Diana  in  its  perfection 
of  beauty,  seemed  to  the  poor  country  girl  to  put  at  an 
immense  distance  from  Mr.  Knowlton  those  who  could 
not  be  charming  and  refined  and  exquisite  in  the  like 
manner.  Her  gloves,  one  hand  rested  on  Diana's  arm, 
and  pulled  a  little  too  ;  what  gloves  they  were,  for  colour 


92  DIANA. 

and  fit  and  make  !  Her  foot  was  a  study.  Her  hat 
might  have  been  a  fairy  queen's  hat.  And  the  face  under 
it,  pretty  and  gay  and  wilful  and  sweet,  how  could  any  man 
help  being  fascinated  by  it  ?  Diana  made  up  her  mind 
that  it  was  impossible. 

The  rambling  path  through  the  woods  brought  the  party 
out  at  last  upon  a  wild  barren  hillside,  where  stones  and  a 
rank  growth  of  blackberry  bushes  were  all  that  was  to  be 
seen.  Only  far  off  might  be  had  the  glimpse  of  other  hills 
and  of  patches  of  cultivation  on  them  ;  the  near  landscape 
was  all  barrenness  and  blackberries. 

'  But  where  are  the  rest  of  the  people  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Reverdy  with  her  faint  laugh.  '  Are  we  alone  ?  I  don't  see 
anybody.' 

'They  are  gone  on — they  are  picking,'  Diana  explained. 

'  Hid  in  this  scrubby  forest  of  bushes,'  said  her  brother. 

'  Have  we  got  to  go  into  that  forest  too  ? ' 

'  If  you  want  to  pick  berries.' 

'I  think  we'll  sit  here  and  let  the  rest  do  the  picking,' 
said  Mrs.  Reverdy,  looking  with  charming  merriment  at 
Gertrude.  But  Gertrude  was  not  so  minded. 

'No,  I'm  going  after  berries,'  she  said.  '  Only,  I  don't 
see  where  they  are.  I  see  bushes,  and  that  is  all.' 

'  Just  here  they  have  been  picked,'  said  Diana.  '  Further 
on  there  are  plenty.' 

'  Well,  you  lead  and  we'll  follow,'  said  Mr.  Knowlton. 
'You  lead,  Miss  Starling,  and  we  will  keep  close  to  you.' 

Diana  plunged  into  the  blackberry  bushes,  and  striking 
off  from  the  route  she  guessed  the  other  pickers  had  taken, 
sought  a  part  of  the  wilderness  lower  clown  on  the  hill. 
There  was  no  lack  of  blackberries  very  soon.  Every  bush 
hung  black  with  them  ;  great,  fat,  juicy  beauties,  just  ready 
to  fall  with  ripeness.  Blackberry  stains  spotted  the  whole 


BELLES    AND    BLACKBERRIES.  93 

party  after  they  had  gone  a  few  yards,  merely  by  the  una- 
voidable crushing  up  against  the  bushes.  Diana  went  to 
work  upon  this  rich  harvest,  and  occupied  herself  entirely 
with  it ;  bu-t  berry  picking  never  was  so  dreary  to  her.  The 
very  sound  of  the  berries  falling  into  her  tin  pail  smote  her 
with  a  sense  of  pain  ;  she  thought  of  the  day's  work  before 
her  with  revulsion.  However,  it  was  before  her,  and  her 
ringers  flew  among  the  bushes,  from  berry  to  berry,  gather- 
ing them  with  a  deft  skilfulness  her  companions  could  not 
emulate.  Diana  knew  how  they  were  getting  on,  without 
using  her  eyes  to  find  out ;  for  all  their  experience  was  pro- 
claimed aloud.  How  the  ground  was  rough  and  the 
bushes  thorny,  how  the  berries  blacked  their  lips  and  the 
prickles  lacerated  their  fingers,  and  the  stains  of  blackberry 
juice  were  spoiling  gloves  and  dresses  and  all  they  had  on. 

'  I  never  imagined,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  with  a  gay  laugh, 
'that  picking  blackberries  was  such  a  serious  business.  Oh 
dear  !  and  it's  only  just  eleven  o'clock  now.  And  I  am  so 
hungry !  ' 

'  Eat  blackberries,'  said  Gertrude,  who  was  doing  it 
diligently. 

'  But  I  want  to  carry  some  home.' 

'  You  can  buy  'em.  We  came  for  fun,'  was  the  cool 
answer. 

'  Fun  ? '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  with  another  echoing,  softly 
echoing,  laugh  ;  '  it's  the  fun  of  being  torn  and  stained  and 
scratched,  and  having  one's  hat  pulled  off  one's  hair, 
and  the  hair  off  one's  head.' 

Diana  heard  it  all,  they  were  not  far  from  her ;  and 
she  heard  too  Mr.  Knowlton's  little  remarks,  half  gallant, 
half  mocking,  but  very  familiar  she  thought.  No  doubt;  to 
his  sister  ;  but  how  to  Miss  Masters  too  ?  Yet  they  were ; 
and  also,  she  noticed,  he  kept  in  close  attendance  upon 


94  DIANA. 

the  latter  young  lady  ;  picking  into  her  basket,  getting  her 
out  -of  her  numerous  entanglements  with  the  blackberry 
branches,  flattering  and  laughing  at  her ;  Gertrude  was 
having  what  she  would  call  a  '  good  time  ; '  why  not  ?  '  And 
why  should  I  ? '  thought  Diana  to  herself  as  she  filled  her 
pail.  '  It  is  not  in  my  line.  What  a  goose  I  was,  to  fan- 
cy that  this  young  man  could  take  pleasure  in  being  with 
me.  He  did;  but  then,  he  was  just  amusing  himself ;  it 
was  not  I ;  it  was  the  country  and  the  fishing,  and  so  on. 
What  a  goose  I  have  been  ! ' 

As  fast  as  the  blackberries  dropped  into  the  pail,  so 
fell  these  reflections  into  Diana's  heart ;  and  when  the  one 
was  full  so  was  the  other.  And  as  she  set  down  her  pail 
and  began  upon  a  fresh  empty  one,  so  she  did  with  her 
thoughts  ;  they  began  all  over  again  too. 

'  Miss  Starling,  it  is  twelve  o'clock,'  cried  Mrs.  Rever- 
cly  ;  '  where  are  all  the  rest  of  the  people  ?  Do  you  work 
all  day  without  dinner  ?  I  expected  to  see  a  great  picnic 
out  under  the  trees  here.' 

'  This  is  not  the  picnic  place,'  said  Diana.     '  We  will  go 
to  it.' 

She  went  back  first  to  the  wagons  ;  put  her  berries  in 
safe  keeping  and  got  out  some  of  the  lunch  supplies.  Mr. 
Knowlton  loaded  himself  with  a  basket  out  of  his  wagon  ; 
and  the  procession  formed  again  in  Indian  file,  everybody 
carrying  something,  and  the  two  ladies  grumbling  and 
laughing  in  concert.  Diana  headed  the  line,  feeling  very 
much  alone,  and  wishing  sadly  it  were  all  over  and  she  at 
home.  How  was  she  to  play  her  part  in  the  preparations 
at  hand,  where  she  had  always  been  so  welcome  and  so 
efficient  ?  All  spring  and  life  seemed  to  be  taken  out  of 
her,  for  everything  but  the  dull  mechanical  picking  of  ber- 
ries. However,  strength  comes  with  necessity,  she  found. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    NEW    RICHES    OF   THE    OLD   WORLD. 

THERE  was  quite  a  collection  of  people  on  Bear  Hill  to- 
day, as  could  be  seen  when  they  were  all  gathered  together. 
The  lunching  place  was  high  on  the  mountain,  where  there 
was  a  good  outlook  over  the  surrounding  country ;  and 
here  in  the  edge  of  the  woods  the  blackberry  pickers  were 
scattered  about,  lying  and  sitting  on  the  ground  in  groups 
and  pairs,  chatting  and  watching  the  preparations  going  on 
before  their  eyes.  Pretty  and  wild  the  preparations  were. 
Under  a  big  tree  just  at  the  border  of  the  clearing  a  fire 
was  kindled  ;  a  stout  spike  driven  into  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
held  a  tea-kettle  just  over  the  blaze.  Wreaths  of  blue 
and  grey  smoke  curling  up  above  the  tea-kettle  made  their 
way  through  the  tree  branches  into  the  upper  air,  taking 
hues  and  colours  and  irradiations  from  the  sunlight  in  their 
way.  The  forest  behind,  the  wilderness  of  blackberry 
bushes  in  front  •  the  wide  view  over  the  hills  and  vales 
without  one  spot  of  cultivation  anywhere,  or  a  trace  of 
man's  habitation  ;  the  scene  was  wild  enough.  The  soft  curl- 
ing smoke,  grey  and  embrowned,  gave  a  curious  touch  of 
homeliness  to  it.  From  two  fires  it  went,  curling  up  as 
comfortably  as  if  it  had  been  there  always.  The  second 
fire  was  lit  for  the  purpose  of  boiling  green  corn,  which 
two  or  three  people  were  busy  getting  ready,  stripping  the 
green  husks  off.  Other  hands  were  unloading  baskets 


96  DIANA. 

and  distributing  bread  and  butter  and  cups  and  unpacking 
ham  and  chickens.  Meanwhile,  till  the  fires  should  have 
done  their  work,  most  of  the  party  were  comfortably  await- 
ing the  moment  of  enjoyment  and  taking  some  other  mo- 
ments, as  it  seemed,  by  the  way.  Mrs.  Carpenter  in  one 
place  was  surrounded  by  her  large  family  of  children  ;  all 
come  to  pick  blackberries,  all  heated  with  work  and  fun  and 
eager  for  the  dinner.  Miss  Barry,  quite  tired  out,  was  fan- 
ning herself  with  her  sunbonnet  and  having  a  nice  bit  of 
chat  with  Miss  Babbage,  the  schoolmaster's  sister.  Mrs. 
Mansfield  and  farmer  Carpenter  were  happily  discussing 
systems  of  agriculture.  Mrs.  Bodington  was  making  a  cir- 
cle merry  with  her  sharp  speeches.  Younger  folks  here 
and  there  were  carrying  on  their  own  particular  lines  of 
skirmishing  operations  ;  but  there  were  not  many  of  these  ; 
the  company  had  come  for  business  quite  as  much  as  for 
play.  Indeed  Miss  Gunn's  array  of  baskets  and  tin  pails 
suggested  that  she  was  doing  business  on  her  brother's  ac- 
count as  much  as  on  her  own  ;  and  that  preserves  and 
blackberry  wine  would  be  for  sale  by  and  by  on  the  shelves 
of  the  store  at  the  "  Corner." 

The  little  party  that  came  up  with  Diana  melted  away 
as  it  met  the  rest.  Mrs.  Reverdy  glided  into  the  group 
gathered  about  Mrs.  Bodington,  and  slid  as  easily  into  the 
desultory  gossip  that  was  going  on.  Diana  had  instantly 
joined  herself  to  the  little  band  of  workers  at  the  camp 
fire.  Only  one  or  two  had  cared  to  take  the  trouble  and 
responsibility  of  the  feast ;  it  was  just  what  Diana  craved. 
As  if  cooking  had  been  the  great  business  of  life,  she 
went  into  it ;  making  coffee,  watching  the  corn,  boiling  the 
potatoes  ;  looking  at  nothing  else  and  trying  to  see  nobody, 
and  as  far  as  possible  contriving  that  nobody  should  see 
her.  She  hid  behind  the  column  of  smoke,  or  sheltered 


THE    NEW    RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.  97 

herself  at  the  further  side  of  the  great  trunk  of  a  tree ; 
from  the  fire,  she  said  to  herself.  But  her  face  took  on  a 
preternatural  gravity  at  those  times,  whenever  she  knew 
it  was  safe.  She  thought  she  did  not  look  at  anybody  ; 
yet  she  knew  that  Miss  Masters  had  joined  none  of  the 
groups  under  the  trees,  and  seemed  instead  to  prefer  a 
solitary  post  in  front  of  them  all,  where  her  pretty  figure 
and  dainty  appointments  were  displayed  in  full  view.  Was 
she  looking  at  the  landscape  ?  Diana  did  not  in  the  least 
believe  it.  But  she  tried  to  work  without  thinking ;  that 
vainest  of  all  cheateries,  where  the  conclusions  of  thought, 
independent  of  the  processes,  force  themselves  upon  the 
mind  and  lay  their  full  weight  upon  it.  Only  one  does 
not  stop  anywhere  to  think  about  them,  and  the  weight  is 
distributed.  It  is  like  driving  fast  over  thin  ice ;  stay  a 
minute  in  any  one  place  and  you  would  break  through. 
But  that  consciousness  makes  unpleasant  driving. 

The  corn  gave  forth  its  sweet  smell,  and  Diana  dished 
it  up.  What  was  the  use  of  taking  so  much  trouble,  she 
thought ;  as  ear  after  ear,  white  and  fair,  came  out  of  the 
pot.  Yet  Diana  had  enjoyed  the  notion  of  making  this 
variety  in  the  lunch.  The  coffee  steamed  forth  its  fra- 
grance upon  the  air  ;  and  Diana  poured  it  into  prepared 
cups  of  cream  and  sugar  which  others  brought  and  carried 
away  ;  she  was  glad  to  stand  by  the  fire  if  only  she  might. 
How  the  people  drank  coffee !  Before  the  cups  were  once 
filled  the  first  time  they  began  to  come  back  for  the 
second ;  and  the  second,  Diana  knew,  would  not  satisfy 
some  of  the  farmers  and  farmers'  wives  there.  So  pot 
after  pot  of  the  rich  beverage  had  to  be  made.  It  wearied 
her  ;  but  she  would  rather  do  that  than  anything  else.  And 
she  had  expected  this  picnic  to  be  such  a  pleasant  time  1 
And  it  had  turned  out  such  a  failure.  Standing  by  her 
7 


Qo  DIANA. 

camp  fire,  where  the  ascending  column  of  grey  smoke 
veiled  her  from  observation,  Diana  could  look  off  and  see 
the  wide  landscape  of  hill  and  valley  spead  out  below  and 
around.  Not  a  house,  not  another  wreath  of  smoke  ;  not 
a  cornfield ;  hollows  of  beauty  with  nothing  but  their 
own  green  growth  and  the  sunshine  in  them  ;  hilltops  fair 
and  lovely,  but  without  a  fence  that  told  of  human  owner- 
ship or  a  road  that  spoke  of  human  sympathy.  Was  life 
like  that,  Diana  wondered  ?  Yet  surely  that  landscape 
had  never  looked  dreary  to  her  before. 

'  Mrs.  Starling  will  have  another  cup  of,  coffee,  Miss 
Diana.' 

Diana  started.  What  should  bring  Mr.  Knowlton  to 
wait  upon  her  mother's  cups  of  coffee  ?  She  sugared  and 
creamed  and  poured  out  in  silence. 

'  May  I  come  presently  and  have  some  ? ' 

'  Haven't  you  had  any  ? ' 

'Just  enough  to  make  me  want  more.  I  never  saw 
such  good  coffee  in  my  life.' 

'  You  are  accustomed  to  West  Point  fare.' 

'  It's  not  that,  though.  I  know  a  good  thing  when  I  see 
it.' 

'When  you  taste  it,  I  suppose,'  said  Diana;  preparing 
his  cup  however,  she  knew,  with  extra  care. 

'  I  assure  you,'  said  Mr.  Knowlton  expressively,  as  he 
stirred  it,  '  I  have  appreciation  for  better  things  than  cof- 
fee. I  always  want  the  best,  in  every  kind  ;  and  I  know  the 
thing  when  I  see  it.' 

'  I  make  no  doubt  you  can  have  it,'  said  Diana  coolly, 
turning  away. 

'  Hullo,  Diany  ! '  said  Mr.  Carpenter  on  the  other  side, 
— you're  coming  it  strong  to-day.  Got  no  one  to  help  ye  ? 
Sha'n't  I  fetch  'Lizy  ?  she's  big  enough  to  do  som'thin. 


THE    NEW   RICHES    OF   THE   OLD   WORLD.  99 

I  vow  I  want  another  cup.  You  see,  it's  hard  work,  is 
picking  blackberries.  I  ain't  master  here  ;  and  my  wife, 
she  keeps  me  hard  at  it.  Can't  dewolve  the  duty  on  no 
one,  neither ;  she  sees  if  I  ain't  got  my  pail  filled  by  the 
time  she's  got  her'n,  and  I  tell  you  !  I  catch  it.  It  makes 
'me  sweat,  this  kind  of  work  ;  and  that  makes  me  kind  o» 
dry.  I'll  be  obleeged  to  you  for  another  cup.  You  needn't 
to  put  no  milk  into  it ! ' 

'  It's  strong,  Mr.  Carpenter.' 

'  Want  it.  I  tell  you  !  working  under  orders  this  way 
makes  a  man  feel  kind  o'  feeble  ? ' 

'  How  do  you  think  we  women  get  along,  Mr.  Carpen- 
ter ? '  said  Mrs  Bodington,  coming  up  with  her  cup. 

'  How  Mis'  Bodington  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I'm  asking  that.  A  little  more,  Diana  ;  it's  first 
rate,  and  so's  the  corn.  It  takes  you  and  your  mother ! 
— How  do  you  think  we  women  feel,  under  orders  all  the 
time  ? ' 

'  Under  orders ! '  said  Mr.  Carpenter. 

'  Yes,  all  the  time.     How  d'you  think  we  feel  about  it  ? ' 

'  Must  be  uncommon  powers  of  reaction,'  said  the  far- 
mer. '  My  wife  ain't  anywheres  near  killed  yet.' 

'  Think  any  one'll  ever  get  that  piece  of  mantua-mak- 
ing  under  orders  ? '  said  Mrs.  Bodington,  looking  towards 
the  place  where  the  frills  and  rufflings  of  Miss  Masters' 
drapery  stirred  in  the  breeze,  with  the  long  light  tresses 
of  her  unbound  hair.  The  breeze  was  partly  of  her 
own  making,  as  she  stirred  and  turned  and  tossed  her  head 
in  talking  with  Mr.  Knowlton  ;  the  only  one  of  the  company 
whom  she  would  talk  with,  indeed.  The  farmer  took  a  good 
look  at  her. 

'Wall,'  said  he, — '/should  say  it  was  best  to  do  with 
that  kind  of  article  what  you  would  do  with  the  steam  from 


IOO  DIANA. 

your  tea  kettle  ;  let  it  go.  'Tain't  no  use  to  try  to  utilize 
everything,  Mis'  Bodington.' 

*  Evan  Knowlton  acts  as  if  he  thought  differently.' 

'  Looks  is  enough,  with  some  folks,'  said  the  farmer ; 
'  and  she's  a  pretty  enough  creatur',  take  the  outside  of  her. 
Had  ought  to  be  ;  for  I  guess  that  sort  o'  riggin'  costs  some- 
thin' — don't  it,  Mis'  Bodington  ? ' 

'  Cost  ? '  said  the  lady.  '  Evan  Knowlton  is  a  fool  if  he 
lets  himself  be  caught  by  such  butterfly's  wings.  But  men 
are  fools  when  women  are  pretty ;  there's  no  use  reasoning 
against  nature.' 

'Wall,  Diany,'  exclaimed  Joe  Bartlett,  now  drawing 
near  with  his  coffee  cup — '  how  comes  you  have  all  the 
work  and  other  folks  all  the  fun  ? ' 

'  Want  some  coffee,  Joe  ? ' 

'Fact,  I  do ;  that  is,  supposin'  you  have  got  any.' 

'  Plenty,  Joe.  That's  what  I  am  here  for.  Hold  your 
cup.  Who  are  you  picking  for  to-day  ? ' 

'  Wall,  I  ain't  here  for  fun,'  said  Joe  ;  '  there's  no  mis- 
take about  that.  I  b'lieve  in  fun  too ;  I  do  sartain  ;  but  I 
don't  b'lieve  in  scratchin'  it  into  you  with  blackberry  bram- 
bles, nor  no  other.  Thank'e,  Diany ;  maybe  this'll  help  me 
get  along  with  the  afternoon.' 

'  I  never  thought  you  would  mind  blackberry  thorns, 
Joe.' 

'  No  more  I  don't,  come  in  the  way  o'  business,'  said 
Joe,  sipping  his  coffee.  '  Guess  I  kin  stand  a  few  knocks, 
let  alone  scratches,  when  I  calculate  to  have  'em.  But  I 
don'  know  !  my  notion  of  pleasure's  sun'thin'  soft  and  easy 
like  ;  ain't  your'n  ?  I  expect  to  take  scratches — bless  you  ! 
but  I  don't  call  'em  fun.  That's  all  I  object  to.' 

'  Then  how  come  you  here,  Joe  ? ' 

'Wall, — 'said  Joe  slowly, — 'I've  got  an  old  mother  hum. 


THE   NEW   RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.  IOI 

'  And  she  wanted  some  berries.' 

1  She  wanted  a  lot.  What  the  women  does  with  'em  all, 
beats  me.  Anyhow,  the  old  lady'll  have  enough  this  time 
for  all  her  wants.' 

'  How  is  she,  Joe,  to-day  ? ' 

'  Days  don't  make  no  difference  to  my  mother,  Diany. 
You  know  that,  don't  ye  ?  There  don't  nothin'  come  wrong 
to  her.  I  vow,  I  b'lieve  she  kind  o'  likes  it,  when  things 
is  contrairy.  I  never  see  her  riled  by  no  sorto'  thing;  and 
it's  not  uncommon  for  me  to  be  as  full's  I  kin  hold  ;  but 
she's  just  like  a  May  mornin',  whatever  the  weather  is. 
There  ain't  no  scarin'  her,  either ;  she'd  jest  as  lieves  die 
as  live,  I  b'lieve,  any  day.' 

'  I  dare  say  she  would,'  said  Diana,  feeling  at  the  mo- 
ment that  it  was  not  so  very  wonderful.  Life  in  this  world 
might  be  so  dull  as  to  be  not  worth  livjng  for. 

' It's  a  puzzle  to  me,'  Joe  went  on,  'which  is  right,  her 
or  the  rest  on  us.  Ef  she  is,  we  ain't.  And  her  and  the  rest 
o'  the  world  ain't  agreed  on  nothin'.  But  it  is  hard  to  say 
she  ain't  right,  for  she's  the  happiest  woman  that  ever  I  see.' 

Diana  assented  absently. 

'  Wall,'  said  Joe,  '  I'm  a  little  happier  for  that  'ere  cup 
o'  coffee.  I'll  go  at  it  agin  now.  Who's  that  'ere  little 
bundle  o'  muslin  ruffles,  Diany  ?  she's  a  kind  o'  pretty 
creatur'  too.  She  hain't  sot  down  this  hull  noonspell.  Who 
is  it  ?  ' 

'  Miss  Masters.' 

'  She  ain't  none  o'  the  family  o'  our  parson  ? ' 

'  A  cousin,  I  believe.' 

'  Cousin,  eh,'  said  Joe.  '  She  hain't  set  down  once.  I 
guess  she's  afeard  o'  gettin'  the  starch  out  somewhere.  The 
captain's  sweet  on  her,  ain't  he  ?  I  see  he  tuk  a  deal  o'  care 
o'  her  eatin'.' 


IO2  DIANA. 

'  Mr.  Knowlton  is  not  a  captain  yet,  Joe  ;  he  is  only  a 
lieutenant.' 

'  Want  to  know,'  said  Joe.  '  Wall,  I  kin  tell  ye,  she  likes 
him.' 

And  Joe  strolled  off,  evidently  bent  on  doing  his  best 
with  the  blackberry  bushes.  So  must  Diana ;  at  least  she 
must  seem  to  do  it.  There  was  a  lull  with  the  coffee  cups  ; 
lunch  was  getting  done  ;  here  and  there  parties  were  hand- 
ling their  baskets  and  throwing  their  sunbonnets  on.  The 
column  of  smoke  had  thinned  now  to  a  filmy  veil  of  grey 
vapour,  slowly  ascending,  through  which  Diana  could  look 
over  to  the  round  hill-tops,  with  their  green  leaves  glitter- 
ing in  the  sun  ;  and  further  still,  to  the  blue,  clear  vault  of 
ether,  where  there  was  neither  shine  nor  shadow,  but  the 
changeless  rest  of  heaven.  Earth  with  its  wildness  of  un- 
trodden ways,  its  glitter  and  flutter  ;  heaven, — how  did  that 
seem  ?  Far  off  and  inscrutable,  though  with  an  infinite 
depth  of  repose,  an  infinite  power  of  purity.  The  human 
heart  shrank  before  both. 

'  And  I  had  thought  to-day  would  be  a  day  of  pleasure,' 
Diana  said  to  herself.  '  If  I  could  get  into  the  wagon  and 
go  home — alone — and  get  the  fire  started  and  the  after- 
noon work  done  ready  for  supper  before  mother  comes  ! — • 
They  will  not  need  me  to  pilot  them  home  at  any  rate.' 

But  things  have  to  be  faced,  not  run  away  from,  in  life  ; 
and  trials  take  their  time  and  cannot  be  lopped  into  easier 
length.  Diana  did  what  she  could.  She  caught  up  her 
basket  very  quietly,  carrying  it  and  her  sunbonnet  in  one 
hand,  and  slipped  away  down  the  hill  under  cover  of  the 
trees  till  she  was  out  of  sight  of  everybody  ;  then  plunged 
into  the  forest  of  high  bushes  and  lost  herself.  She  began 
to  pick  vigorously  ;  if  she  was  found,  anybody  should  see 
what  she  was  there  for.  It  was  a  thicket  of  thorns  and 


THE    NEW    RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.  1 03 

fruit;  the  berries,  large,  purple,  dewy  with  bloom,  hung  in 
quantities,  almost  in  masses,  around  her.  It  was  only 
needful  sometimes  to  hold  her  basket  underneath  and 
give  a  touch  to  the  fruit ;  and  it  dropped,  fast  and  thick, 
into  her  hands.  But  she  felt  as  if  the  cool  soft  berries 
hurt  her  fingers.  She  wondered  wbereaboutsfcwas  pretty 
Miss  Masters  now,  making  believe  pick,  and  with  finge-rs 
at  hand  to  supplement  her,  and  looks  and  words  to  make 
labour  sweet,  even  if  it  were  labour.  '  But  she  will  never 
do  any  work,'  said  Diana  to  herself ;  '  and  he  will  be 
quite  willing  that  she  should  not.'  A.nd  then  she  noticed 
her  own  fingers  ;  a  little  coarsened  with  honest  usefulness 
they  were,  a  little  ;  and  a  little  embrowned  with  careless 
exposure.  Not  white  and  pearly  and  delicate  like  those  of 
that  other  hand.  And  Diana  Remembered  that  Mr.  Knowl- 
ton's  own  were  delicate  and  white;  and  she  could  under- 
stand, she  thought,  tha-t  a  man  would  like  in  a  woman  he 
loved,  all  daintinesses  and  delicacies,  even  although  they 
pertained  to  the  ornamental  rather  than  to  the  useful.  It 
was  the  first  time  Diana  had  ever  wished  for  white  hands ; 
she  did  wish  for  them  now,  or  rather  regret  the  want  of 
them,  with  a  sharp,  sore  point  of  regret.  Even  though  it 
would  have  made  no  difference. 

Picking  and  thinking  and  fancying  herself  safe,  Diana 
made  a  plunge  to  get  through  an  uncommonly  tangled 
thicket  of  interlacing  branches,  and  found  herself  no  longer 
alone.  Miss  Gunn  was  three  feet  off,  squatting,  on  the 
ground  to  pick  the  more  restfully;  and  on  the  other 
side  of  her  was  Diana's  cousin,  Nick  Bodington. 

'  Hullo,  Di ! '  was  his  salutation,  '  where  have  you  left 
my  wife  and  the  rest  of  the  folks  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  Nick;  I  haven't  left  them  at  all.' 

'  What  did  you  come  here  for,  then  ? ' 


IO4  DIANA. 

'  What  did  you  ? ' 

'  I  declare  !  I  came  to  have  the  better  chance,  me  and 
Miss  Gunn.  I  thought  where  nobody  was  I'd  have  it  all  to 
myself.  I'll  engage  you  are  disappointed  to  find  us — now, 
ain't  you  ? ' 

'  The  field  is  big  enough,  cousin  Nick.' 

'  Don't  know  about  that.  What  is  become  of  your  fine 
people  ? ' 

'I  haven't  any  fine  people.' 

'  What's  become  o'  them  you  had,  then  ?  You  brought 
'em  here  ;  have  you  deserted  'em  ? ' 

'  I  came  to  do  work,  Nick  ;  and  I'm  doing  it' 

'  What  did  they  come  for  ?  have  you  any  guess  ?  Tain't 
likely  they  come  to  pick  blackberries.' 

'  I  told  Mis'  Reverdy,'  said  Miss  Gunn  smotheredly 
from  the  depths  of  a  blackberry  bush  and  her  sunbonnet 
'that  we'd  have  plenty  for  ourselves  and  Elmfield  too  to- 
morrow. I  will,  I  guess.' 

'They'll  want  'em,  Miss  Gunn,'  said  Mr.  Bodington. 
'  They'll  not  carry  home  a  pint,  you  may  depend.  Di,  did 
they  come  after  you,  or  you  come  after  them,  this  morn- 
ing? ' 

Diana  answered  something,  she  hardly  knew  what,  and 
made  a  plunge  through  the  bushes  in  another  direction. 
Anything  to  get  out  of  this  neighbourhood.  She  went  on 
eagerly,  through  thicket  after  thicket,  till  she  supposed  she 
was  safe.  And  as  she  stopped,  Mr.  Knowlton  came  round 
from  the  other  side  of  the  bush.  The  thrill  of  pain  and 
pleasure  that  went  through  the  girl  gave  no  outward  sign. 

'Met  again,'  said  the  gentleman.  'What  has  become 
of  you  ?  I  have  lost  sight  of  you  since  dinner.' 

'  One  can't  see  far  through  these  bushes,'  said  Diana. 

'  No.    What  a  thicket  it  is  !  But  at  the  same  time,  peo- 


THE    NEW    RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.          1 05 

pie  can  hear ;  and  you  never  know  who  may  be  a  few  feet 
off.  Does  anybody  ever  come  here,  I  wonder,  when  we 
are  gone  ?  or  is  this  wild  fruitful  hill  bearing  its  harvest 
for  us  alone  ? ' 

'  Other  parties  come,  I  dare  say,'  said  Diana. 

She  was  picking  diligently,  and  Mr.  Knowlton  set  him- 
self to  help  her.  The  berries  were  very  big  and  ripe 
here  ;  for  a  few  minutes  the  two  hands  were  silently  busy 
gathering  and  dropping  them  into  Diana's  pail ;  then  Mr. 
Knowlton  took  the  burden  of  that  into  his  own  hand. 
Diana  was  not  very  willing,  but  he  would  have  it. 

'  One  would  think  blackberries  were  an  important  con- 
cern of  life,'  he  said  presently,  '  by  the  way  you  work..' 

'  I  am  sure,  you  are  working  too,'  said  Diana. 

'  Ah,  but  I  supposed  you  knew  what  it  is  all  for.  Now  I 
have  not  the  faintest  idea.  I  know  what  /am  after,  of 
course  ;  but  what  you  are  after,  is  a  puzzle  to  me.' 

'  Things  are  very  often  a  puzzle  to  me,'  said  Diana 
vaguely  ;  and  having  for  some  reason  or  other  a  good  deal 
of  difficulty  in  commanding  herself. 

'  Aren't  you  tired  ? ' 

'  No. — I  don't  know,'  said  Diana.  '  It  does  not 
signify.' 

'  I  don't  believe  you  care,  any  more  than  a  soldier,  what 
you  find  in  your  way.  Do  you  know,  you  said  something, 
up  yonder  at  the  camp  fire,  which  has  been  running  in  my 
head  ever  since  ?  I  wish  you  would  explain  it.' 

'  I  ? '  said  Diana.     '  I  said  something  ?  What  ? ' 

'  I  told  you  what  I  wanted, — and  you  said  you  had  no 
doubt  I  could  get  it.' 

'  I  have  no  recollection  of  one  thing  or  the  other,  Mr. 
Knowlton.  I  think  you  must  have  been  speaking  to  some- 
body else  at  the  time — not  me.  If  you  please,  I  will  try 


IO6  DIANA. 

the  bushes  that  way;  I  think  somebody  has  been  in  this 
place.' 

'Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you  I  always  want  the 
best  of  everything?'  he  said  as  he  followed  her  ;  and  Di- 
ana went  too  fast  for  him  to  hold  the  briary  branches  out 
of  her  way. 

'  There  are  so  many  other  people  who  are  of  that  mind, 
Mr.  Knowlton  ! — ' 

'  Not  yourself  ? ' 

'  I  want  the  best  berries,'  said  Diana,  stopping  before  a 
cluster  of  bushes  heavily  laden. 

'  How  about  other  things  ? ' 

Diana  felt  a  pang  at  her  heart,  an  odd  desire  to  make 
some  wild  answer.  But  nothing  could  be  cooler  than  what 
she  said. 

'  I  take  them  as  I  find  them,  Mr.  Knowlton.' 

He  was  helping  her  now  again. 

'What  did  you  suppose  I  was  thinking  of,  when  I  told 
you  I  wanted  the  best  I  could  have  ? ' 

'  I  had  no  right  to  suppose  anything.  No  doubt  it  is 
true  of  all  sorts  of  things.' 

'  But  I  was  thinking  of  one — did  you  guess  what  ? ' 

Diana  hesitated.  '  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Knowlton, — I 
might  guess  wrong.' 

'  Then  what  made  you  say,  "  no  doubt "  I  could  have 
it?' 

'I  don't  know,  Mr.  Knowlton,'  said  Diana,  feeling  irri- 
tated and  worried  almost  past  her  power  to  bear.  '  Don't 
you  always  have  what  you  want  ? ' 

'  Do  you  think  I  can  ? '  he  said  eagerly. 

'  I  fancy  you  do.' 

'  What  did  you  think  I  meant  by  the  "  best  "  thing,  then  ? 
Tell  me — do  tell  me  ? ' 


THE   NEW   RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.          IQ/ 

'  I  thought  you  meant  Miss  Gertrude  Masters.'  Diana 
said,  fairly  brought  to  bay. 

'     '  You  did !     And  what  did  you  think  I  thought  of  Miss 
Diana  Starling  ? ' 

He  had  stopped  picking  blackberries  now  and  was  put- 
ting his  questions  short  and  keenly.  Diana's  power  of 
answering  had  come  to  an  end. 

'  Hey  ? '  said  he,  drawing  her  hand  from  the  bush  and 
stopping  her  work  ;  '  what  did  you  think  I  thought  of  her  ? 
I  have  walked  with  her,  and  driven  with  her,  and  talked 
with  her,  in  the  house  and  out  of  the  house,  now  all 
summer  long;  I  have  seen  what  she  is  like  at  home  and 
abroad  ;  what  do  you  think  I  think  of  her  ?  ' 

Baskets  and  berries  had,  figuratively,  fallen  to  the 
ground  ;  literally  too,  in  Mr.  Knowlton's  case,  for  certainly 
both  his  hands  were  free,  and  had  been  employed  while 
these  words  were  spoken  in  gently  and  slowly  gathering 
Diana  into  close  bondage.  There  she  stood  now,  hardly 
daring  to  look  up ;  yet  the  tone  of  his  questions  had  found 
its  way  to  her  inmost  heart.  She  could  not  refuse  one 
look,  which  they  asked  for.  It  gave  her  what  she  never 
forgot  to  her  latest  day. 

'  Does  she  know  now  ? '  he  went  on  in  a  tone  of  mixed 
tenderness  and  triumph,  like  the  expression  of  his  face. 
'My  lily  ! — my  Camellia  flower! — my  sweet  Magnolia  !  — 
whatever  there  is  most  rare,  and  good,  and  perfect.  My 
best  of  all  things.  Can  I  have  the  best,  Di  ? ' 

Miss  Gertrude  Masters  would  have  been  equal  to  the 
situation,  and  doubtless  would  have  met  it  .with  great 
equanimity  ;  Diana  was  unused  to  most  of  the  world's  ways 
and  very  new  to  this.  She  stood  in  quiet  dignity  indeed  ; 
but  the  stains  of  crimson  on  cheek  and  brow  flushed  and 
paled,  like  the  lights  of  a  sunset.  All  at  the  bottom  of 


IO8  DIANA. 

her  deep  sunbonnet;  was  Mr.  Knowlton  to  blame  if  he 
gently  pushed  it  back  and  insinuated  it  off,  till  he  had  a 
full  view  ? 

'  You  know  what  is  my  "  best  "  now,'  he  said.  '  Can  I 
have  it,  Diana  ? ' 

She  tried  to  break  away  from  him.  and  on  her  lip  there 
broke  that  beautiful  smile  of  hers ;  withal  a  little  tremu- 
lous just  then.  It  is  rare  on  a  grown  woman's  lip,  a  smile 
so  very  guileless  and  free  ;  mostly  it  belongs  to  children. 
Yet  not  this  smile,  either. 

'  I  should  think  you  must  know  by  this  time ' —  she 
whispered. 

I  suppose  he  did ;  for  he  put  no  more  questions  for  a 
minute  or  two. 

"  There's  one  more  thing,'  he  said.  '  Now  you  know 
what  I  think  of  you  ;  what  do  you  think  of  me,  Diana  ?  ' 

'  I  think  you  are  very  imprudent,'  she  said,  freeing 
herself  resolutely  and  picking  up  her  sunbonnet.  '  Any- 
body might  come,  Mr.  Knowlton.' 

'  Anybody  might !  But  if  ever  you  call  me  "  Mr.  Knowl- 
ton "  again — I'll  do  something  extraordinary.' 

Diana  thought  he  would  have  a  great  many  things  to 
teach  her,  beside  that.  She  went  at  her  fruit  picking  with 
bewildered  haste.  She  did  not  know  what  she  was  doing, 
but  mechanically  her  ringers  flew  and  the  berries  fell.  Mr. 
Knowlton  picked  rather  more  intelligently;  but  between 
them,  I  must  say,  they  worked  very  well.  Ah,  the  black- 
berry field  had  become  a  wonderful  place  ;  and  while  the 
mellow  purple  fruit  fell  fast  from  the  branches,  it  seemed 
also  as  if  years  had  reached  their  fruition  and  the  perfected 
harvest  of  life  had  come.  Could  riper  or  richer  be,  than  had 
fallen  into  Diana's  hands  now?  than  filled  them  now  ?  So 
it  was,  she  thought.  And  yet  this  was  not  life's  harvest,  only 


THE    NEW    RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.         IOQ 

the  bloom  of  the  flower  ;  the  fruit  comes  not  to  its  maturity 
with  one  sunny  day,  and  it  needs  more  than  sunshine.  But 
let  the  fruit  grow ;  it  will  come  in  time,  even  if  it  ripens  in 
secret ;  and  meanwhile  smell  the  flower.  It  was  the  frag- 
rance of  the  grape  blossom  that  filled  the  blackberry 
field ;  most  sweet,  most  evanishing,  most  significant. 
Oddly,  many  people  do  not  know  it.  But  it  must  be 
that  their  life  has  never  brought  them  within  reach  of  its 
charm. 

Two  people  in  the  field  never  knew  how  the  shadows 
grew  long  that  day.  No,  not  even  though  their  colloquy 
was  soon  interrupted,  and  by  Gertrude  Masters  herself. 
She  thenceforth  claimed,  and  received,  Mr.  Knowlton's 
whole  services  ;  while  Diana  in  her  turn  was  assisted  by 
Will  Flandin,  a  young  farmer  of  Pleasant  Valley,  who  gave 
his  hands  and  his  arms  to  her  help.  It  did  not  make  much 
difference  to  Diana ;  it  might  have  been  an  ogre  and  she 
would  not  have  cared ;  so  she  hardly  noticed  that  Will, 
who  had  a  glib  enough  tongue  in  ordinary,  was  now  very 
silent.  Diana  herself  said  nothing.  She  was  listening  to 
hidden  music. 

'  There's  a  wonderful  lot  o'  blackberries  on  Bear  Hill,' 
Will  remarked  at  last. 

'  Yes,'  said  Diana. 

'  Well,  I  guess  we've  cleaned  'em  out  pretty  well  for  this 
time,'  pursued  he. 

'  Have  we  ? '  said  Diana. 

'Why  all  these  folks  ha'  been  pickin'  all  day  ;  I  should 
think  they'd  ha'  made  a  hole  in  'em.' 

Silence  fell  again. 

'How's  the  roads  down  your  way?'  began  Mr.  Flandin 
again. 

'  The  roads  ?  pretty  well,  I  believe.' 


I IO  DIANA. 

'They're  awful,  up  this  way,  to  Bear  Hill.  I  say,  Miss 
Starling,  how  do  you  s'pose  those  people  lives,  in  that  vil- 
lage ? ' 

'  How  do  they  ?  I  don't  know.' 

'  Beats  me !  they  don't  raise  nothin',  and  they  don't 
kill  nothin', — 'thout  it's  other  folks's  ;  and  what  they  live  on 
I  would  jest  like  to  know.  Mother,  she  thinks  a  minister 
had  ought  to  go  and  settle  down  among  'em  ;  but  I  tell  her 
I'd  like  to  see  what  a  sherifFd  do,  fust.  They  don't  live 
in  no  reg'lar  good  way,  that's  a  fact.' 

'  Poor  people  ! '  said  Diana.  '  They  don't  even  know 
enough  to  pick  blackberries.' 

'  They  hadn't  no  need  to  be  so  poor,  ef  they  would 
work,'  said  the  young  man.  '  But  I  s'pose  you've  got  a 
kind  word  for  every  one,  ha'n't  you,  Miss  Starling  ? ' 

'  Diany,'  said  the  voice  of  Joe  Bartlett,  who  was  push- 
ing his  way  towards  her  through  the  bushes, — '  Diany  ! 
Here  you  be  !  Here's  your  mother  lookin'  for  ye.  Got  all 
you  want  ?  It's  gettin'  time  to  make  tracks  for  hum.  The 
sun's  consid'able  low.' 

'  I'm  ready,  Joe.' 

'  Give  me  one  o'  them  pails,  then,  and  we'll  try  ef  we 
kin  git  through  these  pesky  bushes.  I  vow  !  I  wouldn't 
like  to  take  Bear  Hill  for  a  farm,  not  on  a  long  lease.' 

•  They  pushed  and  fought  their  way  in  the  thicket  for  a 
long  distance,  till,  as  Joe  remarked,  they  had  surveyed  the 
hill  pretty  well  ;  Diana  conscious  all  the  time  that  Mr. 
Knowlton  and  Gertrude  were  following  in  their  wake.  That 
was  near  enough.  She  liked  it  so.  She  liked  it  even  that 
in  the  crowd  and  the  bustle  of  packing  and  hitching  horses 
and  getting  seated,  there  was  no  chance  for  more  than  a 
far-off  nod  and  wave  of  the  hand  from  the  Elmfield  parly. 
They  drove  off  first  this  time.  And  Diana  followed  at  a 


THE    NEW    RICHES    OF    THE    OLD    WORLD.          Ill 

little  distance,  driving  Prince  ;  Mrs.  Statling  declaring  her- 
self "  tuckered  out." 

There  was  no  sense  of  weariness  on  Diana.  Never  less 
in  her  life.  She  was  glad  the  drive  was  so  long;  not  be- 
cause she  was  weary  and  wanted  to  rest,  but  because  every 
nerve  and  sense  seemed  strung  to  a  fine  tension,  so  that 
everything  that  touched  them  sent  waves  of  melody  over 
her  being.  Truly  the  light  was  sweet  that  evening,  for  any 
eyes ;  to  Diana's  vision  the  sunbeams  were  solid  gold, 
though  refined  out  of  all  sordidness,  and  earth  was  heaped 
up  and  brimming  over  with  riches.  The  leaves  of  the  trees 
on  the  hillsides  sparkled  in  the  new  wealth  of  nature  ;  the 
air  scintillated  with  it ;  the  water  was  full  of  it.  Prince's 
hoofs  trod  in  measure,  and  the  wheels  of  the  wagon  moved 
rhythmically,  and  the  evening  breeze  might  have  been  the 
very  spirit  of  harmony.  The  way  was  long,  and  before 
home  was  reached  the  light  had  faded  and  the  sparkling 
was  gone  ;  but  even  that  was  welcome  to  Diana.  She 
was  glad  to  have  a  veil  fall,  for  a  while,  over  the  bright- 
ness, and  hide  even  from  herself  the  new  world  into  which 
she  had  entered.  She  knew  it  was  there,  under  the  veil  ; 
the  knowledge  was  enough  for  the  present. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
MRS.  STARLING'S  OPINIONS. 

It  was  well  dusk  when  Prince  stopped  under  the  elm 
tree.  The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  low  distant  hills, 
leaving  a  white  glory  in  all  that  region  of  the  heavens  ;  and 
shadows  were  settling  upon  the  valleys.  All  household 
wants  and  proprieties  were  disarranged  ;  the  thing  to  do 
was  to  bring  up  arrears  as  speedily  as  possible.  To  this 
Mrs.  Starling  and  her  daughter  addressed  themselves.  The 
blackberries  were  put  carefully  away  ;  the  table  set ;  sup- 
per cooked,  for  the  men  must  have  a  warm  supper ;  and 
after  supper  and  clearing  up  there  came  a  lull. 

'  If  it  warn't  so  late,'  said  Mrs.  Starling, — 'but  it  is  too 
late, — I'd  go  at  those  berries.' 

'  Mother !  Not  to-night.' 

'  Well,  no  ;  it's  'most  too  late,  as  I  said  ;  and  I  am  tired. 
I  want  to  know  if  this  is  what  folks  call  work  or  play? 
'cause  if  it's  play,  I'd  rather  work,  for  my  part.  I  believe* 
I'd  sooner  stand  at  the  wash-tub.' 

'Than  pick  blackberries,  mother  ? ' 

'  Well,  yes,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  ;  '  'cause  then  I'd  know 
when  my  work  was  done.  If  the  sun  hadn't  gone  down, 
we'd  all  be  pickin'  yet.' 

'  I  am  sure,  you  could  stop  when  you  were  tired,  mother  ; 
couldn't  you  ? ' 


MRS.    STARLINGS   OPINIONS.  113 

'  I  never  am  tired,  child,  while  I  see  my  work  before 
me  ;  don't  you  know  that  ?  And  it's  a  sin  to  let  the  ripe 
fruit  go  unpicked.  I  wonder  what  it  grows  in  such  a  place 
for  !  Who  were  you  with  all  day  ?  ' 

'  Different  people.' 

'  Did  Will  Flandin  find  you  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  He  was  in  a  takin'  to  know  where  you  were.  So  I  just 
gave  him  a  bit  of  a  notion.' 

'  1  don't  see  how  you  could  know,  mother  ;  I  had  been 
going  so  roundabout  among  the  bushes.  I  don't  know 
where  I  was,  myself.' 

'When  ever  you  don't  know  that,  Diana,  stop  and  find  out.' 

Mrs.  Starling  was  sitting  before  the  stove  in  a  resting 
attitude,  with  her  feet  stretched  out  towards  it.  Diana 
was  busy  with  some  odds  and  ends,  but  her  mother's  tone 
— or  was  it  her  own  consciousness  ? — made  her  suddenly 
stop  and  look  towards  her.  Mrs.  Starling  did  not  see  this, 
Diana  being  behind  her. 

'  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  Will  was  sweet  on  you  ? ' 
she  went  on. 

'  Will  Flandin,  mother  ? ' 

An  inarticulate  note  of  assent. 

Diana  did  not  answer,  and  instead  went  on  with  what 
she  had  been  doing. 

'Hey?'  said  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  I  hope  he'll  get  cured  of  it,  mother,  if  he  is.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  why,'  said  Diana,  half  laughing,  '  except 
that  he  had  better  be  sweet  on  some  one  else.' 

'  He's  a  nice  fellow.' 

'  Yes,  I  think  he  is  ;  as  they  go.' 

'  And  he'll  be  very  well  off,  Diana.' 
8 


114"  DIANA. 

'  He's  no  match  for  me,  then,  mother  ;  for  I  am  well 
off  now.' 

'No,  you  ain't,  child,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  'We  have 
enough  to  live  on,  but  that's  all.' 

'  What  more  does  anybody  want  ? ' 

'  You  don't  mean  what  you  say,  Diana  ! '  cried  her 
mother  turning  upon  her.  '  Don't  you  want  to  have  pretty 
things,  and  a  nice  house,  and  furniture  to  suit  you,  and 
maybe  servants  to  do  your  work  ?  I  wonder  who's  particu- 
lar, if  you  ain't !  Wouldn't  you  like  a  nice  carriage  ? ' 

'  I  like  all  these  things  well  enough,  mother  ;  but  they 
are  not  the  first  thing.' 

'  What  is  the  first  thing  ? '  said  Mrs.  Starling  shortly. 

'  I  should  say, — how  I  get  them.' 

'  Oh  ! — I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  the  man  was 
the  first  thing.  That's  the  usual  lingo.' 

Diana  was  silent  again. 

'  Now  you  can  have  Will,'  her  mother  went  on  ;  '  and  he 
would  be  my  very  choice  for  you,  Diana.' 

Diana  made  no  response. 

'  He  is  smart ;  and  he  is  good-lookin' ;  and  he'll  have  a 
beautiful  farm  and  a  good  deal  of  money  ready  laid  up  to 
begin  with  ;  and  he's  the  sort  to  make  it  more  and  not 
make  it  less.  And  his  mother  is  a  first-rate  woman.  It's 
one  of  the  best  families  in  all  Pleasant  Valley.' 

'  I  would  rather  not  marry  either  of  'em,'  said  Diana, 
with  a  little  half  laugh  again.  '  You  know,  mother,  there 
are  a  great  many  nice  people  in  the  world.  I  can't  have 
all  of  'em.' 

'  Who  were  you  with  all  the  forenoon  ? '  Mrs.  Starling 
asked  suddenly. 

'  You  went  off  and  left  me  with  the  people  from  Elm-' 
field.  I  was  taking  care  of  them.' 


MRS.    STARLINGS    OPINIONS.  1 15 

'  I  saw  you  come  out  of  the  field  with  them.  What  a 
poppinjay  that  Masters  girl  is,  to  be  sure !  and  Mrs. — • 
what's  her  name  ? — the  other,  is  not  much  better.  Soft  as 
oil,  and  as  slippery.  How  on  earth  did  they  come  to  Bear 
Hill?' 

'  I  suppose  they  thought  it  would  be  fun/  Diana  said 
with  constrained  voice. 

'  Don't  let  anybody  get  sweet  on  you  there,  Diana  Star- 
ling ;  not  if  you  know  what  is  good  for  you.' 

'  Where,  mother  ? ' 

'  There.    At  Elmfield.     Among  the  Knowlton  folks.' 

'  What's  the  matter  with  them  ? '  Diana  asked  ;  but  not 
without  a  touch  of  amusement  in  her  voice,  which  perhaps 
turned  the  edge  of  her  mother's  suspicion.  She  went  on 
however  energetically. 

'  Poor  and  proud  ! '  she  said.  '  Poor  and  proud.  And 
that's  about  the  meanest  kind  of  a  mixture  there  is.  I 
don't  mind  if  folks  has  something  to  go  on — why,  airs  come 
nat'ral  to  human  nature  ;  I  can  forgive  'em  anyhow,  for  I'm 
as  proud  as  they  be.  But  when  they  hairft  anything — and 
when  they  pile  up  their  pretensions  so  high  they  can't  carry 
'em  steady — for  my  part  I'd  rather  keep  out  o'  their  way. 
They're  no  pleasure  to  me  ;  and  if  they  think  they're  an 
honour,  it's  an  opinion  I  don't  share.  Gertrude  Masters 
ain't  no  better  than  a  balloon;  full  of  gas ;  she  hain't 
weight  enough  to  keep  her  on  her  feet ;  and  Mrs. — what's 
her  name  ? — Genevy — she's  as  smooth  as  an  eel.  And 
Evan  is  a  monkey.' 

'  Mother  !  what  makes  you  say  so  ? ' 

'  Why  don't  he  shave  himself  then,  like  other  folks  ? ' 

'  Why  mother,  it  is  just  the  fashion  in  the  army  to  wear 
a  moustache.' 

'  What  business  has  he  to  be  in  the  army  ?     He  ought 


1 1 6  DIANA. 

to  be  here  helping  his  grandfather.  I  have  no  sort  'o  pa- 
tience with  him.' 

'  Mother,  you  know  they  sent  him  to  the  Military  Acade- 
my ;  of  course  he  could  not  help  being  in  the  army.  It  is 
no  fault  of  his.' 

'  He  could  quit  it,  I  suppose,  if  he  wanted  to.  But  he 
ain't  that  sort.  He  just  likes  to  wear  gold  on  his  shoulders, 
and  a  stripe  down  his  leg,  and  fancy  buttons,  and  go  with 
his  coat  flying  all  open  to  shew  his  white  shirt.  I  think, 
when  folks  have  a^pair  of  such  broad  shoulders,  they're 
meant  to  do  some  work ;  but  he'll  never  do  none.  He'll 
please  himself,  and  hold  himself  up  high  over  them  that 
does  work.  And  he'll  live  to  die  poor.  I.  \von't  have  you 
take  after  such  a  fellow,  Diana ;  mind  I  won't.  I  won't 
have  you  settin'  yourself  up  above  your  mother  and  despis- 
in'  the  ways  you  was  brought  up  to.  And  I  want  you  to  be 
mistress  o'  Will  Flandin's  house  and  lands  and  money ; 
and  you  can,  if  you're  a  mind  to.' 

Diana  was  a  little  uncertain  between  laughing  and  cry- 
ing, and  thought  best  not  to  trust  her  voice.  So  they  went 
up  to  their  rooms  and  separated  for  the  night.  But  all  in- 
clination to  tears  was  shut  out  with  the  shutting  of  her 
door.  Was  not  the  moonlight  streaming  full  and  broad 
over  all  the  fields,  filling  the  whole  world  with  quiet  ra- 
diance ?  So  came  down  the  clear  quiet  illumination  of  her 
happiness  upon  all  Diana's  soul.  There  was  no  disturb- 
ance ;  there  was  no  shadow ;  there  was  no  wavering,  of 
that  full  flood  of  still  ecstasy.  All  things  not  in  harmony 
with  it  were  hidden  by  it.  That's  the  way  with  moonlight. 

And  the  daylight  was  sweeter.  Early,  Diana  always 
saw  it;  in  those  prime  hours  of  day  when  strength  and 
freshness,  and  promise,  and  bright  hope,  are  the  speech  and 
the  eye-glance  of  nature.  How  much  help  the  people  lose, 


MRS.    STARLINGS    OPINIONS.  1 1/ 

who  lose  all  that.  When  the  sun's  first  look  at  the  moun- 
tains breaks  into  a  smile  ;  when  morning  softly  draws  off 
the  veil  from  the  work  there  is  to  do ;  when  the  stir  of  the 
breeze  speaks  courage  or  breathes  kisses  of  sympathy ; 
and  the  clear  blue  sky  seems  waiting  for  the  rounded  and 
perfected  day  to  finish  its  hours,  now  just  beginning.  Diana 
often  saw  it  so ;  she  did  not  often  stop  so  long  at  her  win- 
dow to  look  and  listen,  as  she  did  this  morning.  It  was  a 
clear,  calm,  crisp  morning,  without  a  touch  of  frost,  prom- 
ising one  of  those  mellow,  golden,  delicious  days  of  Sep- 
tember that  are  the  very  ripeness  of  the  year ;  just  yet  six 
o'clock  held  only  the  promise  of  it.  Like  her  life  !  But 
the  daylight  brought  all  the  vigour  of  reality  ;  and  last  night 
was  moonshine.  Diana  sat  at  her  window  a  few  minutes 
drinking  it  all  in  ;  and  then  went  to  her  dairy. 

Alas  !  one's  head  may  be  in  rare  ether,  and  one's  feet 
find  bad  walking  spots  at  the  same  time.  It  wa-s  Diana's 
experience  at  breakfast. 

'  How  are  those  pigs  getting  along,  Josiah  ? '  Mrs.  Star- 
ling demanded. 

'  Waell,  I  don'  know,'  was  the  somewhat  unsatisfactory 
response.  '  Guess  likely  the  little  one's  gettin'  ahead  late- 
ly.' 

1  He  hadn't  ought  to  ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  What's 
the  reason  the  others  ain't  gettin'  ahead  as  fast  as  him  ? ' 

'  He's  a  different  critter — that's  all,'  said  Josiah  stolid- 
ly. '  He'll  be  the  biggest.' 

'  They're  all  fed  alike  ? ' 

'  Fur's  my  part  goes,'  said  Josiah  ;  '  but  when  it  comes 
to  the  eatin' — tell  you  !  that  little  feller'll  put  away  con 
sid'able  more'n  his  share.  That's  how  he's  growd  so.' 

'  They  are  not  any  of  'em  the  size  they  ought  to  be, 
Josiah.' 


Il8  DIANA. 

'  We  ain't  feedin'  'em  corn  yet.' 

'  But  they  are  not  as  big  as  they  were  last  year  this 
time.' 

'  Don't  see  how  you'll  help  it,'  said  Josiah.  '  I  ain't 
done  nothin'  to  'em.' 

With  which  conclusion  Mrs.  Starling's  '  help  '  finished 
his  breakfast  and  went  off. 

'  There  ain't  the  hay  there  had  ought  to  be,  in  the  mows, 
neither,'  Mrs.  Starling  went  on  to  her  daughter.  '  I  know 
there  ain't ;  not  by  tons.  And  there's  no  sort  o'  a  crop 
o'  rye.  I  wish  to  mercy,  Diana,  you'd  do  somethin'.' 

'  Do  what,  mother  ? '  Diana  said  gayly.  '  You  mean, 
you  wish  Josiah  would  do  something.' 

'  I  know  what  I  mean,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  '  and  I  com- 
monly say  it.  That  is,  when  I  say  anything.  I  dorft  wish 
anything  about  Josiah.  I've  given  up  wishin'.  He's  an 
unaccountable  boy.  There's  no  dependin'  on  him.  And 
the  thing  is,  he  clon't  care.  All  he  thinks  on  is  his  own 
victuals  ;  and  so  long's  he  has  'em,  he  don't  care  whether 
the  rest  of  the  world  turns  round  or  no.' 

'  I  suppose  it's  the  way  with  most  people,  mother ;  to 
care  most  for  their  own.' 

'  But  if  I  had  hired  myself  to  take  care  of  other  folks' 
things,  I'd  do  it,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  That  ain't  my  way. 
Just  see  what  I  haven't  done  this  morning  already  !  and 
he's  made  out  to  eat  his  breakfast  and  fodder  his  cattle. 
I've  been  out  to  the  barn  and  had  a  good  look  at  the  hay 
mow  and  calculated  the  grain  in  the  bins  ;  and  seen  to  the 
pigs;  and  that  was  after  I'd  made  my  fire  and  ground  my 
coffee  and  set  the  potatoes  on  to  boil  and  got  the  table 
ready  and  the  rooms  swept  out.  Is  that  cream  going  to 
get  churned  to-day,  Diana  ? ' 

'  No,  mother.' 


MRS.    STARLINGS    OPINIONS.  119 

'It's  old  enough.' 

'  It  is  not  ready,  though.' 

'  It  ought  to  be.  I  tell  you  what,  Diana,  you  raust  set 
your  cream  pot  in  here  o'  nights  ;  the  dairy's  too  cold.' 

'  Warm  enough  yet,  mother.     Makes  better  butter.' 

'  You  don't  get  nigh  so  much,  though.  That  last  butter- 
milk was  all  thick  with  floatin'  bits  of  butter ;  and  that's 
what  I  call  wasteful.' 

'  I  call  it  good,  though.' 

'  There's  where  you  make  a  mistake,  Diana  Starling ; 
and  if  you  ever  want  to  be  anything  but  a  poor  woman, 
you've  got  to  mend.  It's,  just  those  little  holes  in  your 
pocket  that  let  out  the  money  ;  a  penny  at  a  time,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  by  and  by  when  you  come  to  look  for  the  dollars, 
you  won't  find  'em  ;  and  you'll  not  know  where  they're 
gone.  And  you'll  want  'em.' 

'  Mother,'  said  Diana  laughing,  '  I  can't  feel  afraid. 
We  have  never  wanted  'em  yet.' 

'You've  been  young,  child.  You  will  want  'em  as  you 
grow  older.  Marry  Will  Flandin,  and  you'll  have  'em  ; 
and  you  may  churn  your  cream  how  you  like.  I  tell  you 
what,  Diana ;  when  your  arm  ain't  as  strong  as  it  used  to 
be,  and  your  back  gets  to  aching,  and  you  feel  as  if  you'd 
like  to  sit  down  and  be  quiet  instead  of  delvin'  anddelvin', 
then  you'll  feel  as  if  't  would  be  handy  to  put  your  hand  in 
your  pocket  and  find  cash  somewhere.  My !  I  wish  I  had 
all  the  money  your  father  spent  for  books.  Books  just 
makes  some  folks  crazy.  Do  you  know  it's  the  afternoon 
for  Society  meeting,  Diana  ? ' 

'  I  had  forgotten  it.     I  shall  not  go.' 

'  One  of  us  must,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  I  don't  see  how 
in  the  world  I  can ;  but  I  suppose  I'll  have  to.  You'll  have 
to  make  the  bread  then,  Diana.  Yesterday's  put  me  all 


I2O  DIANA. 

out.  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  those  black- 
berries ?  They're  too  ripe  to  keep.' 

'  I'll  do  them  up  this  afternoon,  mother.  I'll  take  care 
of  them.' 

The  morning  went  in  this  way,  with  little  intermission. 
Mrs.  Starling  was  perhaps  uneasy  from  an  undefined  fear 
that  something  was  going  not  right  with  Diana's  affairs. 
She  could  lay  hold  on  no  clue,  but  perhaps  the  secret  fear 
or  doubt  was  the  reason  why  she  brought  up — as  if  by  sheer 
force  of  affinity, — every  small  and  great  source  of  annoy- 
ance that  she  knew  of.  All  the  morning  Diana  had  to  hear 
and  answer  a  string  of  suggestions  and  complainings  like 
the  foregoing.  She  was  not  unaccustomed  to  this  sort  of 
thing,  perhaps  ;  and  doubtless  she  had  her  own  hidden  anti- 
dote to  annoyance  :  yet  it  belonged  still  more  to  the  large 
sweet  nature  of  the  girl  that  though  annoyed  she  was  never 
irritated.  Wrinkles  never  lined  themselves  on  the  fair 
smooth  brow  ;  proper  token  of  the  depth  and  calm  of  the 
character  within. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  SUGAR. 

DINNER  was  over,  and  talk  ceased,  for  Mrs.  Starling 
went  to  dress  herself  for  the  sewing  society  and  presently 
drove  off  with  Prince.  Diana's  motions  then  became  as 
swift  as  they  were  noiseless.  Her  kitchen  was  in  a  state 
of  perfected  order  and  propriety.  She  went  to  dress  her- 
self then ;  a  modest  dressing,  for  business,  and  kitchen 
business  too,  must  claim  her  all  the  afternoon ;  but  it  is 
possible  to  combine  two  effects  in  one's  toilet ;  and  if  you 
had  seen  Diana  that  day,  you  would  have  comprehended 
the  proposition.  A  common  print  gown,  clean  and  sum- 
mery-looking, shewed  her  soft  outlines  at  least  as  well  as 
a  more  modish  affair  would  ;  and  the  sleeves  rolled  up 
to  the  elbows  revealed  Diana's  beautiful  arms.  I  am 
bound  to  confess  she  had  chosen  a  white  apron  in  defiance 
of  possible  fruit  stains  ;  and  the  dark  hair  tucked  away 
behind  her  ears  gave  the  whole  fair  cheek  and  temple  to 
view  ;  fair  and  delicate  in  contour,  and  coloured  with  the  very 
hues  of  a  perfect  physical  condition.  I  think,  no  man  bnt 
would  like  to  see  his  future  wife  present  such  a  picture  of 
womanly  beauty  and  housewifely  efficiency,  as  Diana  was 
that  day.  And  the  best  was,  she  did  not  know  it. 

She  went  about  her  work.  Doubtless  she  had  a  sense 
that  interruptions  might  come  that  afternoon ;  however, 
that  changed  nothing.  She  had  moulded  her  bread  and 
put  it  in  the  pans  and  got  it  out  of  the  way  ;  and  now  the 


122  DIANA. 

berries  were  brought  out  of  the  pantry,  and  the  preserv- 
ing kettle  went  on  the  fire,  and  Diana's  fingers  were  soon 
red  with  the  ripe  wine  of  the  fruit.  All  the  time  she  had 
'  her  ears  open  for  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  upon  the  road ; 
it  had  not  come ;  so  that  a  quick  step  outside  startled  her, 
and  then  the  figure  of  Mr.  Knowlton  in  the  doorway,  took 
her  by  surprise.  Certainly  she  been  expecting  him  all  the 
afternoon  ;  but  now,  whether  it  were  the  surprise  or  some- 
what else,  Diana's  face  flushed  to  the  most  lovely  rose. 
Yet  she  went  to  meet  him  with  simple  frankness. 

'  I've  not  a  hand  to  give  you  ! '  she  said. 

'  Not  a  hand  ! '  he  echoed.  '  What  a  mercy  it  is,  that 
I  am  independent  of  hands.  Yesterday  I  should  have 
been  in  despair  ; — to-day ' 

'  You  must  not  abuse  your  privileges,'  said  Diana,  try- 
ing to  free  herself.  '  And  O,  Mr.  Knowlton,  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  work  to  do.' 

'  So  have  I,'  said  he  holding  her  fast ;  and  indeed  she 
was  too  pretty  a  possession  to  be  easily  let  go.  '  Whole 
loads  of  talking,  and  no  end  of  arrangements. — Di,  I  never 
saw  you  with  such  a  charming  colour.  My  beauty  !  Do 
you  know  what  a  beauty  you  are  ? ' 

'  I  am  glad  you  think  so  ! '  she  said. 

'  Think  so  ?  Wait  till  you  are  my  wife,  and  I  can  dress 
you  to  please  myself.  I  think  you  will  be  a  very  princess 
of  loveliness.' 

'  In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Knowlton,  what  do  you  think 
of  letting  me  finish  my  berries  ? ' 

'Berries?'  he  said  laughing.  'Tell  me  first,  Di,  what 
do  you  think  of  me  ? ' 

'  Inconvenient,'  said  Diana.  '  And  I  think,  presuming. 
I  must  finish  my  berries,  Mr.  Knowlton.' 

1  Evan,'  he  said. 


IN   SUGAR.  123 

Well ;  but  let  me  do  my  work.' 

'  Do  your  work  ?  My  darling  !  How  am  I  going  to  talk 
to  you,  if  you  are  going  into  your  work  ?  However,  in 
consideration  of  yesterday — you  may.' 

'  What  made  you  come  to  this  door  ? '  Diana  asked. 

'  I  knew  you  were  here.' 

'  You  would  have  been  much  more  likely  to  find  mother, 
most  days.' 

'  Ah,  but  I  met  Prince,  as  I  came  along,  with  Mrs.  Star- 
ling behind  him  ;  and  then  I  thought ' 

'What?' 

'  I  remembered,'  said  Knowlton  laughing,  '  that  the  same 
person  cannot  be  in  two  places  at  once  ! ' 

The  comfort  of  this  fact  being  upon  them,  the  two  took 
advantage  of  it.  Mr.  Knowlton  drew  his  chair  close 'to  the 
table  over  which  Diana's  fingers  were  so  busy  ;  and  a  talk 
began,  which  in  the  range  and  variety  and  arbitrary  intro- 
duction of  its  topics,  it  would  be  in  vain  to  try  to  follow. 
Through  it  all  Diana's  work  went  on,  except  now  and  then 
when  her  fingers  made  an  involuntary  pause.  The  berries 
were  picked  over,  and  weighed,  and  put  over  the  fire,  and 
watched  and  tended  there  ;  while  the  tall  form  of  the  young 
officer  stood  beside  Diana  as  she  handled  her  skimmer,  and 
went  back  and  forth  as  she  went,  helping  her  to  carry  her 
jars  of  sweet-meat. 

'  Have  you  told  your  mother  ? '  Mr.  Knowlton  asked. 

'  No.' 

'  Why  not  ? '  he  asked  quickly. 

'  I  did  not  think  it  was  a  good  time,  last  night  or  this 
morning.' 

'  Does  she  not  like  me  ? ' 

'  I  think  she  wants  to  put  some  one  else  in  your  place; 
Evan.' 


124  DIANA. 

'  Who  ? '  he  asked  instantly. 

'  Nobody  you  need  fear,'  said  Diana  laughing.  '  Nobody 
I  like.' 

'  Is  there  anybody  you  do  like  ? ' 

'  Plenty  of  people that  I  like  a  little.' 

'  How  much  do  you  like  me,  Diana  ? ' 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  ;  calm,  large, 
grey  eyes,  into  which  there  had  come  a  new  depth  since 
yesterday  and  an  added  light.  She  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
and  dropped  them  in  silence. 

'  Well  ? '  said  he  eagerly.     '  Why  don't  you  speak?' 

*  I  cannot,'  said  Diana. 

'  Why  ?  I  can  speak  to  you.' 

'  I  suppose  people  are  different,'  said  Diana.  '  And  I 
am  a  woman.' 

'  Well,  what  then  ? ' 

She  turned  away,  with  the  shyest,  sweetest  grace  of  re- 
serve ;  turned  away  to  her  fruit,  quite  naturally  ;  there  was 
no  shadow  of  affectation,  nor  even  of  consciousness.  But 
her  eyes  did  not  look  up  again ;  and  Mr.  Knowlton's  eyes 
had  no  interruption. 

'  Di,  where  do  you  think  we  shall  go  when  we  are  mar- 
ried ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  she  said  simply ;  and  the  tone  of  her 
voice  said  that  she  did  not  care.  It  was  as  quiet  as  the 
harebells  when  no  wind  is  blowing. 

'  And  I  don't  know  ! '  Knowlton  echoed  with  a  half- 
sigh.  '  I  don't  know  where  I  am  going  myself.  But  I 
shall  know  in  a  day  or  two.  Can  you  be  ready  in  a  week, 
do  you  think,  Diana  ? ' 

'  Shall  you  have  to  go  so  soon  as  that? '  she  asked  with 
a  startled  look  up. 

'  Pretty  near.     What  of  that  ?  You  are  going  with  me- 


IN   SUGAR.  125 

It  may  be  to  some  rough  out-of-the-way  place  ;  we  never 
can  tell ;  you  know  we  are  a  sort  of  foot-ball  for  Uncle  Sam 
to  toss  about  as  he  pleases  ;  but  you  are  not  afraid  of  be- 
ing a  soldier's  wife,  Di  ? ' 

She  looked  at  him  without  speaking ;  a  look  clear  and 
quiet  and  glad,  like  her  voice  when  she  spoke.  So  full  of 
the  thought  of  the  reality  he  suggested,  evidently,  that  she 
never  perceived  the  occasion  for  a  blush.  Her  eyes  went- 
through  him,  to  the  rough  country  or  the  frontier  post 
where  she  could  share-and  annul-all  his  harsh  experiences. 

'  What  sort  of  places  are  those  where  you  might  go, 
Evan  ? ' 

'  Nearly  all  sorts  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  my  beauty. 
I  might  be  sent  to  the  neighbourhood  of  one  of  the  great 
cities  ;  we  should  have  a  good  time  then,  Di !  I  would 
wait  for  nothing  ;  I  could  come  and  fetch  you  just  as  soon 
as  I  could  get  a  furlough  of  a  day  or  two.  -  But  they  are 
apt  to  send  us,  the  young  officers,  to  the  hardest  places  ; 
posts  beyond  civilization,  out  west  to  the  frontier,  or  south 
to  Texas,  or  across  to  the  Pacific  coast. 

'  California  ! '  Diana  cried. 

'  California ;  or  Oregon  ;  or  Arizona.     Yes  ;  why  ? ' 

'  California  is  very  far  off. 

'  Rather,'  said  Knowlton,  with  a  half  sigh  again.  '  It 
don't  make  any  difference,  if  we  were  once  there,  Diana.' 

Diana  looked  thoughtful.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
her,  before  this  time,  to  wish  that  the  country  were  not  so 
extended  ;  and  certainly  not  to  fancy  that  California  and 
she  had  any  interest  in  common.  Lo,  now  it  might  be. 

•'  How  soon  must  you  go,  Evan  ? '  she  asked,  as  thoughts 
of  longitude  and  latitude  began  to  deepen  the  cloud  shad- 
ow which  had  just  touched  her. 

'  A  few  days — a  week  or  two  more.' 


126  DIANA. 

'  Is  that  all  ? ' 

'  Can  you  go  with  me  ? '  he  whispered,  bending  forward 
to  pick  up  a  few  of  her  berries,  for  the  taste  of  which  he 
certainly  did  not  care  at  that  moment. 

And  she  whispered,  '  No.' 

'  Can't  you  ? ' 

1  You  know  it's  impossible,  Evan.' 

'  Then  I  must  go  by  myself,'  he  said,  in  the  same  half 
breath,  stooping  his  head  still  so  near  that  a  half  breath 
could  be  heard  ;  and  his  hair,  quite  emancipated  from  the 
regulation  cut,  touched  Diana's  cheek.  I  don't  know  how 
I  can  !  But  Di — if  I  can  get  a  furlough  at  Christmas  and 
come  for  you — will  you  be  ready  then  ? ' 

She  whispered  '  Yes.' 

'  That  is,  supposing  I  am  in  any  place  that  I  can  take 
you  to,  he  went  on,  after  a  hearty  endorsement  of  the  con- 
tract just  made.  '  It  is  quite  possible  I  may  not  be  !  But 
I  won't  borrow  trouble.  This  is  the  first  trouble  I  ever  had 
in  my  life,  Di,  leaving  you.' 

'  They  say,  prosperity  makes  people  proud,'  she  said, 
with  an  arch  glance  at  him. 

'Proud  ? '  echoed  Knowlton.  '  Yes,  I  am  proud.  I  have 
a  right  to  be  proud.  I  do  not  think,  Diana,  there  is  such 
a  pearl  in  all  the  waters  of  Arabia  as  I  shall  wear  on  my 
hand.  ~I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  rose  to  equal  you  in  all 
the  gardens  of  the  world.  Look  up,  my  beauty,  and  let 
me  see  you.  I  sha'n't  have  the  chance  pretty  soon.' 

And  yielding  to  the  light  touch  of  his  fingers  under  her 
chin,  caressing  and  persuading,  Diana's  face  was  lifted  to 
view.  It  was  like  a  pearl,  for  the  childlike  purity  of  all 
its  lines  ;  it  was  like  enough  a  rose  too ;  like  an  opening 
rose,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Her  thoughts  went  back  to 
the  elegance  of  Mrs.  Reverdy  and  Gertrude  Masters,  and 


IN    SUGAR.  127 

she  wondered  in  herself  at  Mr.  Knowlton's  judgment  of 
her;  but  there  was  too  much  of  Diana  ever  to  depreciate 
herself  unworthily.  She  said  nothing. 

'  I  wonder  what  will  become  you  best  ? '  said  Evan  in  a 
very  satisfied  tone. 

'  Become  me  ? '  said  Diana  lifting  her  eyes. 

'  Yes.    .What's  your  colour? ' 

'  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,'  said  Diana  laughing.  '  No 
one  in  particular,  I  guess.' 

'  Wear  everything,  can  you  ?  I  shouldn't  wonder  !  But  I 
think  I  should  like  you  in  white.  That's  cold  for  winter 
— in  some  regions.  I  think  I  should  like  you  in — let  me 
see — shew  me  your  eyes  again,  Diana.  If  you  wear  so 
much  rose  in  your  cheeks,  my  darling,'  said  he,  kissing 
first  one  and  then  the  other,  '  I  should  be  safe  to  get  you 
green.  You  will  be  lovely  in  blue.  But  of  all,  except  white, 
I  think  I  should  like  you,  Diana,  in  royal  red.' 

'  I  thought  purple  was  the  colour  of  kings  and  queens,' 
Diana  remarked,  trying  to  get  back  to  her  berries. 

'  Purple  is  poetical.  I  am  certain  a  dark,  rich  red 
would  be  magnificent  on  you ;  for  it  is  you  who  will  beau- 
tify the  colour,  not  the  colour  you.  I  shall  get  you  the 
first  stuff  of  that  colour  I  see  that  is  of  the  right  hue.' 

'  Pray  don't,  Evan.  Wait,'  said  Diana,  flushing  more 
and  more. 

'  Wait  ?  I'll  not  wait  a  minute  longer  than  till  I  see  it. 
My  beauty  !  what  a  delight  to  get  things  for  you — and  with 
you.  Officers'  quarters  are  sorry  places  sometimes,  Diana  ; 
but  won't  it  be  fun  for  you  and  me  to  work  transforma- 
tions, and  make  our  own  world ;  that  is  our  own  home  ? 
What  does  Mrs.  Starling  think  of  me  ? ' 

'  I  have  told  her  nothing,  Evan,  yet.  She  was  so  busy 
this  morning,  I  had  not  a  good  chance.' 


128  DIANA. 

'  I'll  confront  her  when  she  comes  home  this  evening.' 

'  O  no,  Evan  ;  leave  it  to  me,  I  want  to  take  a  £&<?</ time. 
She  will  not  like  it  much  anyhow.' 

'  I  don't  see  really  how  she  should.  I  have  sympathy 
— no,  I  haven't !  I  haven't  a  bit.  I  am  so  full  of  my  own 
side  of  the  question,  it  is  sheer  hypocrisy  to  pretend  I  have 
any  feeling  for  anybody  else.  When  will  you  come  down 
to  Elmfield  ? ' 

'  To  Elmfield  ? '  said  Diana. 

'  To  begin  to  learn  to  know  them  all.  I  want  them  to 
know  you.' 

'  You  have  not  spoken  to  them  about  me  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  he  laughing  ;    '  but  I  mean  to.' 

'Evan,  don't  say  anything  to  anybody  till  mother  has 
been  told.  Promise  me  !  That  would  not  do.' 

'All's  safe  yet,  Di.  But  make  haste  with  your  revela- 
tions ;  for  I  shall  be  here  to-morrow  night  and  every  night 
now,  and  astonish  her;  and  it  isn't  healthy  for  some  people 
to  be  astonished.  Besides,  Di,  my  orders  will  be  here  in  a 
week  or  two  ;  and  then  I  must  go.' 

'  Do  you  like  being  under  orders  ? '  said  Diana  inno- 
cently. 

Knowlton's  grave  face  changed  again ;  and  laughing 
he  asked  if  she  did  not  like  it  ?  and  how  she  would  do  when 
she  would  be  a  soldier's  wife,  and  so  under  double  orders  ? 
and  he  got  into  such  a  game  of  merriment,  at  her  and  with 
her,  that  Diana  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  herself  or 
her  berries  either.  How  the  berries  got  attended  to  is  a 
mystery  ;  but  it  shews  that  the  action  of  the  mind  can  grow 
mechanical  where  it  has  been  very  much  exercised.  It  can 
scarce  be  said  that  Diana  thought  of  the  blackberries  ;  and 
yet,  the  jam  was  made  and  the  wine  prepared  for  in  a  most 
regular  and  faultless  manner ;  the  jars  were  filled  duly,  and 


IN   SUGAR.  129 

nothing  was  burned,  and  all  was  done  and  cleared  away 
before  Mrs.  Starling  came  home.  Literally ;  for  Mr. 
Knowlton  had  been  sent  away,  and  Diana  had  gone  up  to 
the  sanctuary  of  her  own  room.  She  did  not  wish  to  en- 
counter her  mother  that  night.  While  the  dew  was  not 
yet  off  her  flowers,  she  would  smell  their  sweetness  alone. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A     STORM     IN    SEPTEMBER. 

DIANA  was  not  put  to  the  trial  next  day  of  venturing 
her  precious  things  to  harsh  handling.  A  very  uncommon 
thing  happened.  Mrs.  Starling  was  not  well,  and  kept  her 
bed. 

She  had  caught  cold,  she  confessed,  by  some  imprudence 
the  day  before  ;  and  symptoms  of  pleurisy  made  it  impos- 
sible that  she  should  fight  sickness  as  she  liked  to  fight  it, 
on  foot.  The  doctor  was  not  to  be  thought  of;  Mrs. 
Starling  gave  her  best  and  only  confidence  to  her  own, 
skill  ;  but  even  that  bade  her  lie  by  and  "give  up." 

Diana  had  the  whole  house  on  her  hands,  as  well  as 
the  nursing.  Truth  to  tell,  this  last  was  not  much.  Mrs. 
Starling  would  have  very  little  of  her  daughter's  presence  ; 
still  less  of  her  ministrations.  To  be  "  let  alone "  was 
her  principal  demand  ;  and  that  Diana  should  "  keep 
things  straight  below."  Diana  did  that.  The  house  went 
on  as  well  as  ever ;  and  even  the  farm  affairs  received  the 
needful  supervision.  Josiah  Davis  was  duly  ordered,  fed, 
and  dismissed  ;  and  when  evening  came,  Diana  was  dressed, 
in  order,  bright,  and  ready  for  company.  Company  it 
pleased  her  to  receive  in  the  lean-to  kitchen ;  the  sound  of 
voices  and  laughter  beneath  her  would  have  roused  Mrs. 
Starling  to  a  degree  of  excitement  from  which  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  keep  back  anything  j  and  probably 


A    STORM    IN    SEPTEMBER.  13! 

to  a  degree  of  consequent  indignation  which  would  have 
been  capable  of  very  informal  measures  of  ejectment 
regarding  the  intruder.  No,  Diana  could  not  risk  that. 
She  must  wait  till  her  mother's  nerves  and  temper  were  at 
least  in  their  ordinary  state  of  wholesome  calm,  before  she 
would  shock  them  by  the  disclosures  she  had  to  make. 
And  almost  by  their  preciousness  to  herself,  Diana  gauged 
their  unvvelcomeness  to  her  mother.  It  was  always  so.  The 
two  natures  were  so  unlike  that  not  even  the  long  habit 
of  years  could  draw  them  into  sympathy.  They  thought 
alike  about  nothing  except  the  housewifely  matters  of 
practical  life.  So  these  evenings  when  Mrs.  Starling  was 
ill,  Diana  had  her  lamp  and  her  fire  in  the  lean-to  kitchen  ; 
and  there  were  held  the  long  talks  with  Mr.  Knowlton 
which  made  all  the  days  of  September  so  golden.  Days 
when  Diana's  hands  were  too  busy  to  let  her  see  him,  and 
he  was  told  he  must  not  come  except  at  night ;  but  through 
all  the  business  streamed  the  radiant  glow  of  the  last 
night's  talk;  like  the  September  sunlight  through  the 
misty  air. 

So  the  days  went  by  ;  and  Mrs.  Starling  was  kept  a 
prisoner ;  pain  and  weakness  warning  her  she  must  not 
dare  try  anything  else.  And  in  their  engrossment  the  two 
young  people  hardly  noticed  how  the  time  flew.  People 
in  Pleasant  Valley  were  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  visits 
to  one  another  in  the  evenings,  unless  specially  invited  ; 
so  nobody  discovered  that  Evan  came  nightly  to  Mrs. 
Starling's  house  ;  and  if  his  own  people  wondered  at  his 
absence  from  home,  they  could  do  no  more.  Suspicion 
had  no  ground  to  go  upon  in  any  particular  direction. 

The  month  had  been  glorious  with  golden  leaves  and 
golden  sunshine,  until  the  middle  was  more  than  past. 
Then  came  a  September  storm;  an  equinoctial;  the  people 


132  DIANA. 

said ;  as  furious  as  the  preceding  days  had  been  gentle. 
Whirlwinds  of  tempest  and  floods  of  rain ;  legions  of 
clouds,  rank  after  rank,  bringing  the  winds  in  their  folds ; 
or  did  the  winds  bring  them  ?  All  one  day  and  night  and 
all  the  next  day  the  storm  continued  ;  and  night  darkened 
early  upon  Pleasant  Valley  with  no  prospect  of  a  change. 
Diana  had  watched  for  it  a  little  eagerly  ;  Evan's  visit  was 
lost  the  night  before  of  course ;  it  was  much  to  lose,  when 
September  days  were  growing  few  ;  and  now  another  night 
he  could  not  come.  Diana  stood  at  the  lean-to  door  after 
supper,  looking  and  making  her  conclusions  sorrowfully. 
It  was  darkening  fast ;  very  dark  it  would  be,  for  there 
was  no  moon.  The  rain  came  down  in  streams,  thick  and 
grey.  The  branches  of  the  elm  trees  swung  and  swayed 
pitilessly  in  the  wind,  beating  against  each  other  ;  while  the 
wind  whistled  and  shouted  its  intention  of  keeping  on  so 
all  night.  '  He  can't  come  '  sighed  Diana  for  the  fifth  or 
sixth  time  to  herself ;  and  she  shut  the  door.  It  could  be 
borne,  however,  to  lose  two  evenings,  when  they  had  en- 
joyed so  many  together  and  had  so  many  more  to  look 
forward  to  ;  and  with  that  mixture  in  her  heart  of  content 
and  longing,  which  everybody  knows,  Diana  trimmed  her 
lamp  and  sat  down  to  sew.  How  the  wind  roared  !  she 
must  trim  her  fire  too,  or  the  room  would  be  full  of 
smoke.  She  made  the  fire  up  ;  and  then,  the  snare  of  its 
leaping  flames  and  glowing  coal  bed  drew  her  from  her 
work ;  she  sat  looking  and  thinking,  in  a  fulness  of 
happiness  to  which  -all  the  roar  of  the  storm  only  served 
for  a  foil.  She  heard  the  drip,  drip  of  the  rain  ;  the  fast- 
running  stream  from  the  over-charged  eaves  trough ;  then  the 
thunder  of  the  wind  sweeping  over  the  house  in  a  great  gust ; 
and  the  whistle  of  the  elm  branches  as  they  swung  through 
the  air  like  tremendous  lithe  switches,  beating  and  writhing 


A   STORM   IN   SEPTEMBER.  133 

and  straining  in  the  fury  of  the  blast.  Looking  into  the 
clear  glowing  flames,  Diana  heard  it  all ;  with  a  certain 
sense  of  enjoyment ;  when  in  the  midst  of  it  she  heard 
another  sound,  a  little  thing,  but  distinguishable  from  all 
the  rest ;  the  sound  of  a  foot  upon  the  little  stone  before 
the  door.  Only  one  foot  it  could  be  in  the  world  ;  Diana 
started  up,  and  was  standing  with  lips  apart,  facing  the 
door,  when  it  opened  and  a  man  came  in  enveloped  in  a 
huge  cloak,  dripping  at  every  point. 

'  Evan ! '  Diana's  exclamation  was  with  an  utterance 
between  joy  and  dread. 

'  Yes,'  said  he  as  he  came  forward  into  the  room, — '  I've 
got  orders.' 

"  Without  another  word  she  helped  relieve  him  of  his 
cloak  and  went  with  it  to  the  outer  kitchen  where  she 
hung  it  carefully  to  dry.  As  she  came  back,  Evan  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  fire,  looking  gravely  into  it.  The 
light  danced  and  gleamed  upon  the  gold  buttons  on  his 
breast  and  touched  the  gold  bands  on  his  shoulders ;  it  was 
a  very  stately  and  graceful  figure  to  Diana's  eyes.  He 
turned  a  little,  took  her  into  his  arms,  and  then  they  both 
stood  silent  and  still. 

'  I've  got  my  orders,'  Knowlton  repeated  in  a  low  tone. 

'  To  go  soon,  Evan  ? ' 

'  Immediately.' 

'  I  knew  it,  when  I  heard  your  foot  at  the  door.' 

They  were  both  still  again,  while  the  storm  swept  over 
the  house  in  a  fresh  burst ;  the  wind  rushing  by  as  if  it 
was  glad  he  was  going  and  meant  he  should.  Perhaps  the 
two  did  not  hear  it ;  but  I  think  Diana  did.  The  rain 
poured  down  in  a  kind  of  fury. 

'  How  could  you  get  here,  Evan  ? '  she  asked  looking 
up  at  him. 


134  DIANA. 

'  I  must,  I  had  only  to-night.' 

'  You  are  not  wet  ?  ' 

1  No,  darling  !  Rain  is  nothing  to  me.  How  are  you? 
and  how  is  your  mother  ? ' 

'  She  is  better.     She  is  getting  well.' 

'  And  you  ?  You  are  most  like  a  Magnolia  tree,  full  of 
its  white  magnificent  blossoms  ;  sweet  in  a  kind  of  wealth 
of  sweetness,  and  bountiful  beauty.  One  blossom  would 
do  for  a  comparison  for  ordinary  women ;  but  you  are  like 
the  whole  tree.' 

'  Suppose  I  were  to  find  comparisons  for  you  ? ' 

'  Ay,  suppose  you  did.  What  would  you  liken  me  to  ? ' 
said  he  with  a  sparkle  of  the  eyes,  which  quite  indisposed 
Diana  from  giving  any  more  fuel  to  the  fire  that  supplied 
it. 

'  What,  Di  ?  You  might  as  well  give  me  all  the  com- 
fort you  can  to  take  away  with  me.  I  shall  need  it.  And 
it  will  be  long  before  I  can  come  back  for  more.  What 
am  I  like  ? ' 

'  Would  you  feel  any  better  for  thinking  yourself  like 
a  pine  tree  ?  or  a  green  hemlock  ?  one  of  those  up  in  our 
ravine  of  the  brook  ? ' 

'  Ah,  our  ravine  of  the  brook  !  Those  days  are  all  gone. 
I  wish  I  were  a  green  hemlock  anywhere,  with  you  a  mag- 
nolia beside  me  ;  or  better,  a  climbing  rose  hanging  upon 
me !  If  I  could  take  you,  Di ! ' 

The  pang  of  the  wish  was  very  keen  in  her ;  the  leap  of 
the  will  towards  impossibilities  ;  but  she  said  nothing  and 
stood  quite  motionless. 

'  I  cannot  come  back  for  you  at  Christmas,  Di.' 

'  Where  are  you  going,  Evan.' 

'  Where  I  would  not  take  you  anyhow.  I  am  under 
orders  to  report  myself  at  a  post  away  off  on  the  Indian  fron 


A    STORM    IN    SEPTEMBER.  135 

tier,  a  long  journey  from  here  ;  and  a  rough,  wild  place  never 
fit  for  such  as  you.  Of  course  we  young  officers  are  the 
ones  to  be  sent  to  such  places  ;  unless  we  happen  to  have 
influence  at  headquarters,  which  I  haven't.  But  I  shall 
not  stay  there  forever.' 

'  Must  you  go  just  where  they  send  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  he  said  with  a  laugh.  '  A  soldier  cannot 
choose.' 

'Must  you  stay  as  long  as  they  keep  you  there  ? ' 

'  Yes,  of  course.  But  there  is  no  use  in  looking  at  it 
gloomily,  Di.  The  months  will  pass,  give  them  time;  and 
years  are  made  of  months.  The  good  time  will  come  at 
last.  I'm  not  the  first  who  has  had  to  bear  this  sort  of 
thing.' 

'  Will  you  have  to  stay  years  there  ? ' 

'  Can't  tell.  I  may.  It  depends  on  what  is  doing,  and 
how  much  I  am  wanted.  Probably  I  may  have  to  stay 
two  years  at  least ;  perhaps  three.' 

'  But  you  can  get  a  furlough  and  come  for  a  little  while, 
Evan  ? '  said  Diana  ;  her  voice  sounded  frightened. 

'That's  the  worst  of  it!'  said  Knowlton.  'I  don't 
know  whether  I  can  or  not.' 

'  Why,  Evan  ?  don't  they  always  ? ' 

'  Generally  it  can  be  done,  if  the  distance  is  not  too 
great,  and  you  are  not  too  useful.  You  see,  there  are  sel- 
dom too  many  officers  on  hand,  at  those  out  of  the  way 
posts.' 

'  Is  there  so  much  to  do  ? '  said  Diana,  half  mechanic- 
ally. Her  thoughts  were  going  further;  for  grant  the 
facts,  what  did  the  reasons  matter? 

'  There's  a  good  deal  to  do  sometimes,'  Evan  answered 
in  the  same  way ;  thinking  of  more  than  he  chose  to  speak. 
They  stood  silent  again  awhile.  Diana  was  clasped  in 


136  DIANA. 

Knowlton's  arms ;  her  cheek  rested  on  his  shoulder  ;  they 
both  looked  to  the  fire  for  consolation.  Snapping,  spark- 
ling, glowing,  as  it  has  done  in  the  face  of  so  many  of 
our  sorrows,  small  and  great,  is  there  no  consolation  or 
suggestion  to  be  got  out  of  it?  Perhaps  from  it  came  the 
suggestion  at  last  that  they  should  sit  down.  Evan  brought 
a  chair  for  Diana  and  placed  one  for  himself  close  beside 
it,  and  they  sat  down,  holding  fast  each  other's  hands. 

Was  it  also  the  counsel  of  the  fire  that  they  should  sit 
there  all  night  ?  For  it  was  what  they  did.  The  fire  burned 
gloriously  ;  the  lamp  went  out ;  the  red  lights  leaped  and 
flickered  all  over  floor  and  ceiling ;  and  in  front  of  the 
blaze  sat  the  two,  and  talked ;  enough  to  last  t\vo  years, 
you  and  I  might  say  ;  but  alas  !  to  them  it  was  but  a  whet- 
ting of  the  appetite  that  was  to  undergo  such  famine. 

'  If  I  could  only  take  you  with  me,  my  darling  ! '  Evan 
said  for  the  twentieth  time.  And  Diana  was  silent  at 
first ;  then  she  said, 

'It  would  be  pleasant  to  go  through  hardships  to- 
gether.' 

'  No,  it  wouldn't ! '  said  Evan.  'Not  hardships  for  you, 
my  beauty  !  They  are  all  very  well  for  me ;  in  a  soldier's 
line  ;  but  not  for  you  ! ' 

'  A  soldier's  wife  ought  not  to  be  altogether  unworthy 
of  him,'  Diana  answered. 

'  Nor  he  of  her.  So  I  wouldn't  take  you  if  I  could 
where  I  am  going.  A  soldier's  wife  will  have  hardships 
enough,  first  and  last,  no  fear ;  but  some  places  are  not  fit 
for  women  anyhow.  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  Mrs.  Star- 
ling, though,  and  had  it  out  with  her.' 

'  Had  it  out !'  repeated  Diana. 

'  Yes.  I  should  have  a  little  bit  of  a  fight,  shouldn't  I  ? 
She  don't  like  me  much.  I  wonder  why  ? ' 


A    STORM   IN   SEPTEMBER.  137 

'  Evan,'  said  Diana  after  a  minute's  thought,  '  if  you  are 
to  be  so  long  away,  there  is  no  need  to  speak  to  anybody 
about  our  affair  just  now.  It  is  our  affair  ;  let  it  stay  so.  It 
is  our  secret.  I  should  like  it  much  better  to  keep  it  a 
secret.  I  don't  want  to  hear  people's  talk.  Will  you  ? ' 

'  But  our  letters,  my  dear  ;  they  will  tell  your  mother.' 

'  Mother  will  not  see  mine.  And  she  is  not  likely  to 
see  yours  ;  I  shall  go  to  the  post  office  myself.  If  she  did, 
and  found  it  out,  I  could  keep  her  quiet  easily  enough. 
She  would  not  want  to  speak,  any  more  than  I.' 

Evan  combated  this  resolution  for  some  time.  He 
wished  to  have  Diana  friends  with  his  sisters  and  at  home 
at  Elmfield.  But  Diana  had  her  own  views,  and  desired 
so  strongly  to  keep  her  secret  to  herself  during  the  first 
part  at  least  of  what  threatened  to  be  a  long  engagement, 
that  at  last  he  yielded.  It  did  not  matter  much  to  him,  he 
said,  away  off  in  the  wilds. 

So  that  subject  was  dismissed ;  and  before  the  fantasia 
of  the  flames  they  sat  and  composed  a  fantasia  of  life  for 
themselves  ;  as  bright,  as  various,  as  bewitching,  as  evanish- 
ing ;  the  visions  of  which  were  mingled  with  the  leaping 
and  changing  purple  and  flame  tints,  the  sparkle  and  the 
flash  of  the  fire.  Diana  could  never  stand  before  a  fire  of 
hickory  logs  and  fail  to  see  her  life  story  reappear  as  she 
had  seen  it  that  night. 

The  hours  went  by. 

'  It's  too  bad  to  keep  you  up  so,  my  darling ! '  Evan  re- 
marked. '  I  am  selfish.' 

'  No  indeed  !  But  you  must  want  something,  Evan  !  I 
had  forgotten  all  about  it.' 

He  said  he  wanted  nothing,  but  her  ;  however,  Diana's 
energies  were  roused.  She  ran  into  the  back  kitchen,  and 
came  from  thence  with  the  tea-kettle  in  her  hands,  filled 


138  DIANA. 

She  was  not  allowed  to  set  it  down,  to  be  sure,  but  under 
her  directions  it  was  bestowed  in  front  of  the  glowing 
coals.  Then  with  noiseless  rapid  movements  she  brought 
a  little  table  to  the  hearth  and  fetched  cups  and  plates.  And 
then  she  spread  the  board.  There  was  a  cold  ham  on  the 
big  table ;  and  round  white  slices  of  bread,  such  as  cities 
never  see ;  and  cake,  light  and  fruity ;  and  yellow  butter  ; 
and  a  cream  pie  ;  another  dainty  that  confectioners  are 
innocent  of;  and  presently  the  fragrance  of  coffee  filled  the 
old  lean-to  to  the  very  roof.  Evan  laughed  at  her,  but  con- 
fessed himself  hungry,  and  Diana  had  it  all  her  own 
way.  For  once,  this  rare  once,  she  would  have  the  pleas- 
ure, she  and  Evan  alone  ;  many  a  day  would  come  and  go 
before  she  might  have  it  again.  So  she  thought  as  she 
poured  coffee  upon  the  cream  in  his  cup.  And  whether 
the  pleasure  or  the  pain  were  the  keenest  even  then,  I  can- 
not tell ;  but  it  was  one  of  those  minutes  when  one  chooses 
the  pleasure  and  will  have  it  and  will  taste  it,  whatever 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  draught.  The  small  hours  of 
night,  the  fire-lit  kitchen,  the  daintily  spread  table,  she  and 
Evan  at  opposite  sides  of  it ;  the  pleasure  of  ministering, 
such  as  every  woman  knows  ;  the  beauty  of  her  bread, 
the  magnificence  of  her  coffee,  the  perfection  of  her  cook- 
ery ;  the  exultation  of  seeing  him  enjoy  it ;  while  her 
heart  was  storing  up  its  treasure  of  sorrow  for  the  unfold- 
ing by  and  by,  and  knew  it,  and  covered  it  up  and  went  on 
enjoying  the  minute.  The  criticism  is  sometimes  made 
upon  a  writer  here  and  there,  that  he  talks  too  much 
about  eating;  and  in  a  high-finished  and  artificial  state  of 
society  it  is  indeed  true  that  eating  is  eating,  and  nothing 
more.  Servants  prepare  the  viands  and  servants  bring 
them  ;  and  the  result  is  more  or  less  agreeable  and  satis- 
factory, but  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  much  of  poetry  or 


A  STORM   IN   SEPTEMBER.  139 

sentiment  about  it.  The  case  is  not  so  with  humbler 
livers  on  the  earth's  surface.  Sympathy  and  affection  and 
tender  ministry  are  wrought  into  the  very  pie  crust,  and 
glow  in  the  brown  loaves  as  they  come  out  of  the  oven  ; 
and  are  specially  seen  in  the  shortcake  for  tea  a-nd  the 
favourite  dish  at  dinner  and  the  unexpected  dumpling. 
Among  the  working  classes  too, — it  is  true  only  of  them  ? 
— the  meals  are  the  breathing  spaces  of  humanity,  the 
resting  spots,  where  the  members  of  the  household  come 
together  to  see  each  other's  faces  for  a  moment  at  leisure, 
and  confer  over  matters  of  common  interest  that  have  no 
chance  in  the  rush  and  the  whirl  of  the  hours  of  toil.  At 
any  rate,  I  know  there  was  much  more  than  the  mere  taste 
of  the  coffee  in  the  cups  that  Diana  filled  and  Knowlton 
emptied  ;  much  more  than  the  supply  of  bodily  want  in 
the  bread  they  eat. 

The  repast  was  prolonged  and  varied  with  very  much 
talk  ;  but  it  was  done  at  last.  The  kettle  was  set  on  one 
side,  the  table  pushed  back,  and  Evan  looked  at  his  watch. 
Still  talk  went  on  quietly  for  a  good  while  longer. 

'  At  what  hour  does  your  chief  of  staff  open  his  barn 
doors  ? '  said  Evan,  looking  at  his  watch  again. 

'  Early,'  said  Diana,  not  showing  the  heart  thrust  the 
question  had  given  her.  '  Not  till  it  is  light,  though.' 

'  It  will  be  desirable  that  I  should  get  off  before  light, 
then.  It  is  not  best  to  astonish  him  on  this  occasion.'. 

'  It  is  not  near  light  yet,  Evan  ? ' 

He  laughed  and  looked  at  her.  'Do  you  know,  I  don't 
know  when  that  moment  comes  ?  I  have  not  seen  it  once 
since  I  have  been  at  Elmfield.  It  shews  how  little  truth 
there  is  in  the  theories  of  education.' 

Diana  did  not  ask  what  he  meant.  She  went  to  the 
door  and  looked  out.  It  was  profoundly  dark  yet.  It  was 


I4O  DIANA. 

also  still.  The  rain  was  not  falling  ;  the  wind  had  ceased  ; 
hush  and  darkness  were  abroad.  She  came  back  to  the  fire 
and  asked  what  o'clock  it  was  ?  Evan  looked.  They  had 
an  hour  yet ,  but  it  was  an  hour  they  could  make  little  use 
of.  The  night  was  gone.  They  stood  side  by  side  on  the 
hearth,  Evan's  arm  round  her ;  now  and  then  repeating 
something  which  had  been  already  spoken  of ;  really  en- 
deavouring to  make  the  most  of  the  mere  fact  of  being  to- 
gether. But  the  minutes  went  too  fast.  Again  and  again 
Diana  went  to  the  window ;  the  second  time  saw,  with  that 
nameless  pang  at  her  heart,  that  the  eastern  horizon  was 
taking  the  grey,  grave  light  of  coming  dawn.  Mr.  Knowl- 
ton  went  out  then  presently,  saddled  his  horse  and  brought 
him  out  to  the  fence,  all  ready.  For  a  few  minutes  they 
waited  yet  and  watched  the  grey  light  creeping  up  ;  then, 
before  anything  was  clearly  discernible  through  the  dusky 
gloom,  the  last  farewell  was  taken  ;  Evan  mounted,  and 
walked  his  horse  softly  away  from  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  ASHES   OF   THE   FIRE. 

DIANA  sat  down  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  was  still. 
She  felt  like  a  person  stunned.  It  was  very  still  all  around 
her  !  The  fire  gently  breathed  and  snapped  ;  the  living 
presence  that  had  been  there  was  gone.  A  great  feeling  of 
loneliness  smote  her.  But  there  was  leisure  for  few 
tears  just  then  •  and  too  high  wrought  a  state  of  the  nerves 
to  seek  much  indulgence  in  them.  A  little  while,  and 
j  osiah  would  be  there  with  his  pails  of  rnilk ;  there  was 
something  to  be  done  first. 

And  quick,  as  another  look  from  the  window  assured 
her.  Things  were  becoming  visible  out  of  doors.  Diana 
roused  herself,  though  every  movement  had  to  be  with  pain, 
and  went  about  her  work.  It  was  hard  to  move  the  chair 
in  which  Evan  had  been  sitting ;  it  was  hard  to  move  the 
table  around  which  they  had  been  so  happy  ;  even  that 
little  trace  of  last  night  could  not  be  kept.  Evan's  cup, 
Evan's  plate,  the  bit  of  bread  he  had  left  on  it,  Diana's 
fingers  were  dilatory  and  unwilling  in  dealing  with  them. 
But  then  she  roused  herself  and  dallied  no  longer.  Table 
and  cups  and  eatables  were  safely  removed ;  the  kitchen 
brushed  up  and  the  table  set  for  breakfast :  the  fire  made 
in  the  outer  stove  and  the  kettle  put  on  ;  though  the  touch 
of  the  kettle  hurt  her  ringers,  remembering  when  she  had 
-touched  it  last.  Every  tell-tale  circumstance  was  put  out 


I42  DIANA. 

of  the  way,  and  the  night  of  watching  locked  up  among  the 
most  precious  stores  of  Diana's  memory.  She  opened  the 
lean-to  door  then. 

The  morning  was  rising  fair.  Clouds  and  wind  had 
wearied  themselves  out,  as  it  might  be  ;  and  nature  was  in  a 
great  hush.  Racks  of  vapour  were  scattered  overhead, 
slowly  moving  away  in  some  current  of  air  that  carried 
them  ;  but  below  there  was  not  a  breath  stirring.  A  little 
drip,  drip,  from  the  leaves  only  told  how  heavily  they 
had  been  surcharged  ;  the  long  pendent  branches  of  the 
elm  hung  moveless,  as  if  they  were  resting  after  last  night's 
threshing  about.  And  as  Diana  looked,  .the  touches  of 
gold  began  to  come  upon  the  hills  and  then  on  the  tree 
tops.  It  was  lovely  and  fair  as  ever  ;  but  to  Diana  it  was 
a  changed  world.  She  was  not  the  same,  and  nothing 
would  ever  be  just  the  same,  as  yesterday  it  had  been. 
She  felt  that,  as  she  looked.  She  had  lost,  and  she  had 
gained.  Just  now  the  loss  came  keenest.  The  world 
seemed  singularly  empty.  The  noise  of  entering  feet  be- 
hind her  brought  her  back  to  common  life.  It  was  Josiah 
and  the  milk  pails. 

'  Hain't  set  up  all  night,  hev'  ye  ? '  was  Josiah's  startling 
remark.  '  I  vow!  you  get  the  start  of  the  old  lady  herself. 
I  baint  ready  for  breakfast  yet,  if  you  be.' 

'  It  will  be  ready  soon,  Josiah.' 

'  Mornin's  is  gettin'  short,'  Josiah  went  on.  '  One  o' 
them  pesky  barn  doors  got  loose  in  the  night,  and  it's  beat 
itself  'most  off  the  hinges,  I  guess.  I  must  see  and  get  it 
fixed  afore  Mis'  Starlin's  round,  or  she'll  be  hoppin'.  The 
wind  was  enough  to  take  the  ruff  off,  but  how  it  could  lift 
that  'ere  heavy  latch,  I  don't  see.' 

Diana  went  to  the  dairy  without  any  discussion  of  the 
subject.  Coming  back  to  the  kitchen,  she  was  equally 


THE    ASHES    OF    THE    FIRE.  143 

startled  and  dismayed  to  see  her  mother  entering  by  the 
inner  door.  If  there  was  one  thing  Diana  longed  for  this 
morning,  it  was,  to  be  alone.  Josiah  and  the  farm  boys 
were  hardly  a  hindrance.  She  had  thought  her  mother 
could  not  be. 

'  Are  you  fit  to  be  down  stairs,  mother? '  she  exclaimed. 

'  Might  as  well  be  down  as  up,'  said  Mrs.  Starling. 
'  Can't  get  well  lying  in  bed.  I'm  tired  to  death  with  it  all 
these  days  ;  and  last  night.  I  couldn't  sleep  half  the  night  j 
seemed  to  me  I  heard  all  sorts  of  noises.  If  I'd  had  a 
light  I'd  ha'  got  up  then.  I  thought  the  house  was  coming 
down  about  my  ears ;  and  if  it  was,  I'd  rather  be  up  to 
see.' 

'  The  wind  blew  so.' 

'  You  heard  it  too,  did  you  ?  When  did  you  come  down, 
Diana?  I  hain't  heard  the  first  sound  of  your  door.  'Twarn't 
light,  was  it? ' 

'  I  have  been  up  a  good  while.  But  you  are  not  fit  to  do 
the  least  thing,  mother.  I  was  going  to  bring  you  your 
breakfast.' 

'If  there's  a  thing  I  hata  it's  to  have  my  meals  in  bed. 
I  don't  want  anything,  to  begin  with ;  and  I  can  take  it 
better  here.  What  have  you  got,  Diana  ?  You  may  make 
me  a  cup  of  tea.  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could  touch  cof- 
fee. What's  the  use  o'  your  gettin'  up  so  early  ? ' 

'  I've  all  to  do,  you  know,  mother.' 

'  No  use  in  burning  wood  and  lights  half  the  night, 
though.  The  day's  long  enough.  When  did  you  bake  ? ' 

Diana  answered  this  and  several  other  similar  house- 
hold questions ;  and  got  her  mother  a  cup  of  tea.  But 
though  it  was  accompanied  with  a  nice  bit  of  toast,  Mrs. 
Starling  looked  with  a  dissatisfied  air  at  the  more  substan- 
tial breakfast  her  daughter  was  setting  on  the  table. 


144  DIANA. 

'  I  never  could  eat  slops.  Diana,  you  may  give  me 
some  o'  that  pork.  And  a  potato.' 

'  Mother,  I  do  not  believe  it  is  good  for  you.' 

1  Good  for  me  ?     And  I  have  eat  it  all  my  life.' 

'  But  when  you  were  well.' 

'  I'm  well  enough.  Put  some  of  the  gravy  on,  Diana. 
I'll  never  get  my  strength  back  on  toasted  chips.' 

The  men  came  in,  and  Mrs.  Starling  held  an  animated 
dialogue  with  her  factotum  about  farm  affairs  ;  while  Diana 
sat  behind  her  big  coffee  pot,  not  the  one  she  had  used  last 
night,  and  wondered  if  that  was  all  a  dream ;  more  sadly, 
if  she  should  ever  dream  again.  And  why  her  mother 
could  not  have  staid  in  her  room  one  day  more.  One  day 
more  ! — 

'  He  hain't  begun  to  get  his  ploughing  ahead,'  said  Mrs. 
Starling,  as  the  door  closed  on  the  delinquent. 

'  What  mother  ? '  Diana  asked  starting. 

'  Ploughing.  You  haven't  kept  things  a  going,  as  I 
see,'  returned  her  mother.  '  Josiah's  all  behind,  as  usual. 
If  I  could  be  a  man  half  the  time,  I  could  get  on.  He 
ought  to  have  had  the  whole  west  field  ploughed,  while  I've 
been  sick.' 

'  I  don't  know  so  much  about  it  as  you  do,  mother.' 

'  I  know  you  don't.  You  have  too  much  readin'  to  do. 
There's  a  pane  of  glass  broken  in  that  window,  Diana.' 

'  Yes,  mother.     I  know  it.' 

'  How  did  it  come  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'  You'll  never  get  along,  Diana,  till  you  know  everything 
that  happens  in  your  house.  You  aren't  fit  anyhow  to  be 
a  poor  woman.  If  you're  rich,  why  you  can  get  a  new  pane 
of  glass,  and  there's  the  end  of  it.  I'm  not  so  rich  as  all 
that  comes  to.' 


THE   ASHES    OF   THE   FIRE.  145 

'  Getting  a  pane  of  glass,  mother  ? ' 

'  Without  knowing  what  for.' 

'  But  how  does  it  help  the  matter  to  know  what  for  ? 
The  glass  must  be  got  anyway.' 

'  If  you  know  what  for,  it  won't  be  to  do  another  time. 
You'll  find  a  way  to  stop  it.  I'll  warrant,  now,  Diana,  you 
haven't  had  the  ashes  cleared  out  of  that  stove  fora  week.' 

'  Why,  mother  ? ' 

'  It  smokes.  It  always  does  smoke  when  it  gets  full  of 
ashes ;  and  it  never  smokes  when  it  ain't.' 

'  There  is  no  smoke  here,  surely.' 

'  I  smell  it.  I  can  smell  anything  there  is  about.  I 
don't  know  whatever  there  was  in  the  house  last  night  that 
smelled  like  coffee  ;  but  I  a'most  thought  there  was  some- 
body makin'  it  down  stairs.  I  smelled  it  as  plain  as  could 
be.  If  I  could  ha'  got  into  my  shoes,  I  believe  I  would  ha' 
come  down  to  see,  just  to  get  rid  of  the  notion,  it  worried 
me  so.  It  beats  me  now,  what  it  could  ha'  been.' 

Diana  turned  away  with  the  cups  she  had  been  wiping, 
that  she  might  not  shew  her  face. 

'  Don't  you  never  have  your  ashes  took  up,  Diana  ? ' 
cried  Mrs.  Starling,  who  when  much  exercised  on  house- 
hold matters  sometimes  forgot  her  grammar. 

'  Yes,  mother.' 

'  When  did  you  have  'em  took  up  in  this  chimney  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  remember — yesterday,  I  guess,'  said  Diana 
vaguely. 

'  You  never  burnt  all  the  ashes  there  is  there  since  yes- 
terday morning.  You'd  have  had  to  sit  up  all  night  to  do  it ; 
and  burn  a  good  lot  o'  wood  on  your  fire  too.' 

'  Mother,'  exclaimed  Diana  in  desperation,  '  I  don't 
suppose  everything  is  just  as  it  would  be  if  you'd  been 
round,  all  these  days.' 


146  DIANA. 

'  I  guess  it  ain't ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  There's  where 
you  are  wanting,  Diana.  Your  hands  are  good  enough, 
but  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  your  eyes.  There's  where 
you'd  grow  poor,  if  you  weren't  poor  a'ready.  Now  you 
didn't  know  when  that  pane  o'  glass  was  broke.  You'd 
go  round  and  round,  and  a  pane  o'  glass'd  knock  out  here, 
and  a  quart  of  oil  'ud  leak  out  there,  and  you'd  lose  a 
pound  of  flour  between  the  sieve  and  the  barrel,  and  you'd 
never  know  how  or  where.' 

'  Mother  ! '  said  Diana.  '  you  know  I  never  spill  flour  or 
anything  else ;  no  more  than  you  do.' 

'  No,  but  it  would  go,  I  mean,  and  you  never  the  wiser. 
It  ain't  the  way  to  get  along  ;  unless  you  mean  to  marry  a 
rich  man.  Now  look  at  that  heap  o'  ashes  !  I  declare,  it 
t beats  me  to  know  what  you  have  been  doing  to  burn  so 
much  wood  here ;  and  mild  weather  too.  Who  has  been 
here  to  see  you,  since  I've  been  laid  up  ?  ' 

1  Several  people  came  to  ask  about  you.' 

'Who  did?  and  who  didn't  ?  that  came  at  all.' 

'  Joe  Bartlett, — and  Mr.  Masters — and  Mrs.  Delamater. 
I  can't  tell  you  all,  mother ;  there's  been  a  good  many.' 

'  Tell  me  the  men  that  have  been  here.' 

'  Well,  those  I  said ;  and  Will  Flandin  ;  and  Nick  ; 
and  Mr.  Knowlton.' 

'  Was  he  here  more  than  once  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  How  much  more  ? ' 

'  Mother,  how  do  I  know  ?     I  didn't  keep  count.' 

'  Didn't  keep  count,  eh  ?  '  Mrs.  Starling  repeated. 
'  Must  have  been  frequent  company,  I  judge.  Diana,  you 
mind  what  I  told  you  ? ' 

Diana  made  no  answer. 

'  You  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,'  Mrs.  Starling 


THE   ASHES    OF   THE   FIRE.  147 

went  on.  'You  never  shall.  You  sha'n't  take  up  with  any 
one  that  holds  himself  above  me.  I'll  be  glad  when  his 
time's  up  :  and  I  hope  it'll  be  long  before  he'll  have  anoth- 
er. Once  he  gets  away,  he'll  think  no  more  of  you,  that's 
one  comfort.' 

Diana  knew  that  was  not  true  ;  but  it  hurt  her  to  have 
it  said.  She  could  stand  no  more  of  her  mother's  talk ; 
she  left  her  and  went  off  to  the  dairy,  till  Mrs.  Starling 
crept  up  stairs  again.  Then  Diana  came  and  opened  the 
lean-to  door  and  looked  out  for  a  breath  of  refreshment. 
The  morning  was  going  on  its  way  in  beauty.  Little  clouds 
drifted  over  the  deep  blue  sky ;  the  mellow  September 
light  lay  on  fields  and  hills ;  the  long  branches  of  the  elm 
swayed  gently  to  and  fro  in  the  gentle  air  that  drove  the 
clouds.  But  oh,  for  the  wind  and  the  storm  of  last 
night,  and  the  figure  that  stood  beside  her  before  the  chim- 
ney fire !  The  gladsome  light  seemed  to  mock  her,  and  the 
soft  breeze  gave  her  touches  of  pain.  She  shut  the  door 
and  went  back  to  her  work. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FROM   THE   POST   OFFICE. 

MRS.  STARLING'S  room  was  like  her  ;  for  use  and  not  for 
show,  with  some  points  of  pride,  and  a  general  air  of  hum- 
ble thrift.  A  patchwork  quilt  on  the  bed  ;  curtains  and  val- 
ance of  chintz  ;  a  rag  carpet  covering  only  part  of  the  floor, 
the  rest  scrubbed  clean  ;  rush-bottomed  chairs  ;  and  with 
those,  a  secretary  bureau  of  old  mahogany,  a  dressing 
glass  in  a  dark  carved  frame,  and  a  large  oaken  press. 
There  were  corner  cupboards  ;  a  table  holding  work  and 
work  basket ;  a  spinning  wheel  in  a  corner;  a  little  iron 
stove.  But  no  fire.  Mrs.  Starling  lay  down  on  her  bed, 
simply  because  she  was  not  able  to  sit  up  any  longer ;  but 
she  was  scarcely  less  busy  in  truth  than  she  had  been  down 
stairs.  Her  eyes  roamed  restlessly  from  the  door  to  the 
window,  though  with  never  a  thought  of  the  sweet  Septem- 
ber sunlight  on  the  brilliant  blue  sky. 

'  Diana's  queer  this  morning,'  she  mused.  '  Yes,  she 
was  queer.  What  made  her  so  mum  ?  She  was  not  like 
herself.  Sailing  round  with  her  head  in  the  clouds.  And  a 
little  bit  blue,  too  ;  what  Diana  never  is  ;  but  she  was  to- 
day. What's  up?  I've  been  lying  here  long  enough  foi 
plenty  of  things  to  happen  ;  and  she's  had  the  house  to 
herself.  Knowlton  has  been  here — she  owned  that ;  well, 
either  he  has  been  here  too  often,  or  not  often  enough. 
I'll  find  out  which.  She's  thinkin'  about  him.  Then  that 


FROM   THE    POST    OFFICE.  149 

coffee — was  it  coffee,  last  night  ?  I  could  have  sworn  to  it ; 
just  the  smell  of  fresh,  steaming  coffee.  I  didn't  dream  it. 
She  wasn't  surprised,  either ;  she  had  nothing  to  say  about 
it.  She  would  have  laughed  at  it  once.  And  the  ashes  in 
the  chimney  !  There's  been  a  sight  o'  wood  burned  there, 
and  just  burned,  too  ;  they  lay  light,  and  hadn't  been  swep' 
up.  There's  mischief  !  but  Diana  never  shall  go  off  with 
that  young  feller ;  never  ;  never  !  Maybe  she  won't  have 
Will  Flandin  ;  but  she  sha'n't  have  him  ! ' 

Mrs.  Starling  lay  thinking  and  staring  out  of  her  win- 
dow, till  she  felt  she  could  go  down  stairs  again.  And 
then  she  watched.  But  Diana  had  put  every  possible  tell- 
tale circumstance  out  of  the  way.  The  very  ashes  were  no 
longer  where  her  mother  could  speculate  upon  them  ;  pies 
and  cakes  shewed  no  more  suspiciously  cut  halves  or  quar- 
ters ;  she  had  even  been  out  to  the  barn,  and  found  that 
Josiah  for  reasons  of  his  own  was  making  the  door  latch 
and  hinges  firm  and  fast.  It  was  no  time  now,  to  tell  her 
mother  her  secret.  Her  heart  was  too  sore  to  brave  the 
rasping  speech  she  would  be  certain  to  provoke.  And  with 
a  widely  different  feeling,  it  was  too  rich  in  its,  prize  to 
drag  the  treasure  forth  before  scornful  eyes.  For  this  was 
part  of  Diana's  experience,  she  found,  and  the  feeling  grew, 
the  feeling  of  being  rich  in  her  secret  possession  ;  rich  as 
she  never  had  been  before ;  perhaps  the  richer  for  the 
secresy.  It  was  all  hers,  this  beautiful,  wonderful  love 
that  had  come  to  her  ;  this  share  in  another  person's  heart 
and  life  ;  her  own  wholly  ;  no  one  might  intermeddle  with 
her  joy ;  she  treasured  it  and  gloated  over  it  in  the  depths 
of  her  glad  consciousness. 

And  so,  as  the  days  went  by,  there  was  no  change  that 
her  mother  could  see  in  the  sweet  lines  of  her  daughter's 
face.  Nothing  less  sweet  than  usual  j  nothing  less  bright 


ISO  DIANA. 

and  free  ;  if  the  eyes  had  a  deeper  depth  at  times,  it  was 
not  for  Mrs.  Starling  to  penetrate ;  and  if  the  childlike 
play  of  .the  mouth  had  a  curve  of  beauty  that  had  never 
until  then  belonged  to  it,  the  archetype  of  such  a  sign  did 
not  lie  in  Mrs.  Starling's  nature.  Yet  once  or  twice  a 
jealous  movement  of  suspicion  did  rise  in  her,  only  because 
Diana  seemed  so  happy.  She  reasoned  with  herself  im- 
mediately that  Evan's  absence  could  never  have  such  an 
effect,  if  her  fears  were  true ;  and  that  the  happiness  must 
therefore  be  referred  to  some  purely  innocent  cause.  Never- 
theless Mrs.  Starling  watched.  For  she  was  pretty  sure 
that  the  young  soldier  had  pushed  his  advances  while  he 
had  been  in  Pleasant  Valley  ;  and  he  might  push  them 
still,  though  there  no  longer.  She  would  guard  what  could 
be  guarded.  She  watched  both  Diana  and  other  people, 
and  kept  an  especial  eye  upon  all  that  came  from  the  post 
office. 

Evan  had  gqne  to  a  distant  frontier  post ;  the  journey 
would  take  some  time  ;  and  it  would  be  several  days  more 
still  in  the  natural  course  of  things  before  Diana  could 
have  a  letier.  Diana  reasoned  out  all  that,  and  was  not 
anxious.  For  the  present  the  pleasure  of  expecting  was 
enough.  A  letter  from  him  ;  it  was  a  fairylandish,  weird, 
wonderful  pleasure,  to  come  to  her.  She  took  to  studying 
the  newspaper,  and  covertly,  the  map.  From  the  map  she 
gained  a  little  knowledge  ;  but  the  columns  of  the  paper 
were  barren  of  all  allusion  to  the  matter  which  was  her 
world,  and  Evan's.  Newspapers  are  very  partial  some- 
times. She  was  afraid  to  let  her  mother  see  how  eagerly 
she  scanned  them.  The  map  and  Diana  had  secret  and  more 
satisfactory  consultations.  Measuring  the  probable  route 
of  Evan's  journey  by  the  scale  of  miles ;  calculating  the 
rate  of  progress  by  different  modes  of  travel ;  counting  the 


FROM   THE    POST    OFFICE.  !$! 

nights  and  places  where  he  might  spend  them  ;  she  reck- 
oned up  over  and  over  again  the  days  that  were  probably 
necessary  to  enable  him  to  reach  his  post.  Then  she  al- 
lowed margins  for  what  she  did  not  know,  and  accounted 
for  the  blanks  she  could  not  fill  up ;  and  reasoned  with 
herself  about  the  engrossments  which  might  on  his  first 
arrival  hinder  Evan  from  writing — for  a  few  hours,  or  a 
night.  So  at  last  she  had  constructed  a  scheme  by  which 
she  proved  to  herself  the  earliest  day  at  which  it  would  do 
to  look  for  a  letter,  and  the  latest  to  which  a  letter  might 
reasonably  be  delayed.  Women,  do  such  things.  How 
many  men  are  worthy  of  it  ? 

That  furthest  limit  was  reached,  and  no  letter  yet. 

About  that  time,  one  morning  the  family  at  Elmfield 
were  gathered  at  breakfast.  It  was  not  exactly  like  any 
other  breakfast  table  in  Pleasant  Valley,  for  a  certain  drift 
from  the  great  waves  of  the  world  had  reached  it ;  where- 
as the  others  were  clean  from  any  such  contact.  The  first 
and  the  third  generation  were  represented  at  the  table ; 
the  second  was  wanting ;  the  old  gentleman,  the  head  of 
the  family,  was  surrounded  by  only  his  granddaughters. 
Now  old  Mr.  Bowdoin  was  as  simple  and  plain-hearted  a 
man  as  all  his  country  neighbours,  if  somewhat  richer  than 
most  of  them  j  he  had  wrought  at  the  same  labour  and 
grown  up  with  the  same  associations.  He  was  not  more 
respectable  than  respected  ;  generous,  honest,  and  kindly. 
But  the  young  ladies  his  grandchildren,  Evan's  sisters, 
were  different.  They  came  to  spend  the  summer  with  him, 
and  they  brought  fancies  and  notions  from  their  far-away 
city  life  which  made  a  somewhat  incongruous  mixture  with 
the  elemental  simplicity  of  their  grandfather's  house.  All 
this  appeared  now.  The  old  farmer's  plain  strong  features, 
his  homespun  dress  and  his  bowl  of  milk,  were  at  one  end 


152  DIANA. 

of  the  table,  where  he  presided  heartily  over  the  fried  ham 
and  eggs.  Look  where  you  would  beside,  and  you  saw 
ruffled  chintzes  and  little  fly-away  breakfast-caps,  and  fin- 
gers with  jewels  on  them.  Miss  Euphemiahad  her  tresses 
of  long  hair  unbound  and  unbraided,  hanging  down  her 
back  in  a  style  that  to  her  grandfather  savoured  of  barbar- 
ism ;  he  could  not  be  made  to  understand  that  it  was  a 
token  of  the  highest  elegance.  For  these  ladies  there  was 
some  attempt  at  elaborate  and  dainty  cookery,  signified  by 
sweetbreads  and  a  puffed  omelette ;  and  Mrs.  Reverdy 
presided  over  a  coffee  pot  that  was  the  wonder  of  the  Elm- 
field  household  and  even  a  little  matter  of  pride  to  the  old 
squire  himself ;  though  he  covered  it  with  laughing  at  her 
mimic  fires  and  doubtful  steam  engines.  Gertrude  Masters 
was  still  at  Elmfield,  the  only  one  left  of  a  tribe  of  visiters 
who  had  made  the  old  place  gay  through  the  summer. 

'  I  have  had  an  invitation  ! '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  as  she 
sent  her  grandfather  his  cup  of  coffee.  And  she  laughed. 
I  wish  I  could  give  the  impression  of  this  little  laugh  of 
hers,  which,  in  company,  was  the  attendant  of  most  of  her 
speeches.  A  little  gracious  laugh,  with  a  funny  air  as  if 
she  were  condescending,  either  to  her  subject  or  herself, 
and  amused  at  it. 

'  What  is  it,  Vevay  ?  what  invitation  ? '  inquired  her 
sister  ;  while  Gertrude  tossed  her  mass  of  tresses  from  her 
neck  and  looked  as  if  nothing  at  Pleasant  Valley  con- 
cerned her. 

'  An  invitation  to  the  sewing  society  ! '  said  Mrs.  Rever- 
dy. '  We  are  all  asked.'  And  the  laugh  grew  very  amused 
indeed. 

*  What  do  they  do  ? '  inquired  Gertrude  absently. 

'  O,  they  bring  their  knitting  at  two  or  three  o'clock, 
and  have  a  good  time  to  tell  all  the  news  till  five  Or  six ; 


FROM  THE  POST  OFFICE.  153 

and  then  they  have  supper,  and  then  they  put  up  theif 
knitting  and  go  home.' 

'  What  news  can  they  have  to  tell  at  Pleasant  Valley  ? ' 

'  Whose  hay  is  in  first,  and  whose  orchard  will  yield  the 
most  cider,'  said  Euphemia. 

'  Yes,  and  how  all  their  children  are,  and  how  many 
eggs  go  in  a  pudding.' 

'  I  don't  believe  they  make  puddings  with  eggs  very 
often,'  said  the  other  sister  again.  '  Their  puddings  are 
more  like  hasty  puddings,  I  fancy.' 

'  Some  of  'em  make  pretty  good  things,'  said  old  Mr. 
Boudoin.  '  Things  you  can't  beat,  Phemie.  There's  Mrs. 
Mansfield — she's  a  capital  housekeeper ;  and  Mrs.  Star- 
ling. She  can  cook.' 

'  What  do  they  expect  you  to  do  at  the  sewing  meeting, 
Vevay  ? ' 

'  Shew  myself,  I  suppose,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy. 

'Well,  I  guess  I'd  go,'  said  her  grandfather  looking  at 
her.  '  It  would  be  as  good  a  thing  as  you  could  do.' 

'  Go,  grandpa  ?  O  how  ridiculous ! '  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Reverdy,  with  her  pretty  face  all  wrinkled  up  with  amuse- 
ment. 

'  Go  ?  yes.     Why  not  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  how  to  knit ;  and  I  shouldn't  know  how 
to  talk  orchards  and  puddings.' 

'  I  think  you  had  better  go.  It  is  not  a  knitting  society, 
as  I  understand  it ;  and  I  am  sure  you  can  be  useful.' 

'Useful !'  echoed  Mrs.  Reverdy.  '  It's  the  last  thing 
I  know  how  to  be.  And  I  don't  belong  to  the  society, 
grandpa.' 

'  I  shouldn't  like  them  to  think  that,'  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman. '  You  belong  to  me ;  and  I  belong  to  them,  my 
dear.' 


154  DIANA. 

'  Isn't  it  dreadful ! '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  in  a  low 
aside.  '  Now  he's  got  this  in  his  head — what  ever  am  I 
going  to  do  ! — Suppose  I  invite  them  all  to  Elmfield  ;  how 
would  you  like  that,  sir  ? '  she  added  aloud. 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  yes,'  said  the  old  gentleman,  pushing 
back  his  chair ;  for  the  cup  of  coffee  was  the  last  part  of 
his  breakfast ;  'it  would  be  well  done,  and  I  should  be  glad 
of  it.  Ask  'em  all.' 

'  You  are  in  for  it  now,  Vevay,'  said  Gertrude,  when  the 
ladies  were  left.  '  How  will  you  manage  ? ' 

'  O  I'll  give  them  a  grand  entertainment  and  send  them 
away  delighted,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy.  '  You  see,  grandpa 
wishes  it ;  and  I  think  it'll  be  fun.' 

'  Do  you  suppose  Evan  really  paid  attentions  to  that 
pretty  girl  we  saw  at  the  blackberrying  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  Mrs.  Reverdy  answered.  '  He  told  me 
nothing  about  it.  I  should  think  Evan  was  crazy  to  do  it ; 
but  men  do  crazy  things.  However,  I  don't  believe  it  of 
him,  Gerty.  What  nonsense  ! ' 

'  I  can  find  out,  if  she  comes,'  said  Miss  Masters. 
'  You'll  ask  her,  Genevieve  ? ' 

So  it  fell  out,  that  an  invitation  to  hold  the  next  meet- 
ing of  the  sewing  society  at  Elmfield  was  sent  to  the  ladies 
accustomed  to  be  at  such  meetings ;  and  a  great  stir  of  ex- 
pectation in  consequence  went  through  all  Pleasant  Val- 
ley. For  Elmfield,  whether  they  acknowledged  it  or  not, 
was  at  the  top  of  their  social  tree.  The  invitation  came  in 
due  course  to  Mrs.  Starling's  house. 

It  came  not  alone.  Josiah  brought  it  one  evening  on 
his  return  from  the  Corners,  where  the  store  and  the  post- 
office  were,  and  Mrs.  Reverdy's  messenger  had  fallen  in 
with  him  and  intrusted  to  him  the  note  for  Mrs.  Starling. 
He  handed  it  out  now,  and  with  it  a  letter  of  more  bulk 


FROM   THE   POST   OFFICE.  1 55 

and  pretensions,  having  a  double  stamp  and  an  unknown 
postmark.  Mrs.  Starling  received  both  and  Josiah's  ex- 
planations in  silence,  for  her  mind  was  very  busy.  Curious 
as  she  was  to  know  upon  what  subject  Mrs.  Reverdy  could 
possibly  have  written  to  her,  she  lingered  yet  with  her  eyes 
upon  this  other  letter.  It  was  directed  to  '  Miss  D.  Star- 
ling.' 

'That's  a  man's  hand,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  to  herself. 
'  He's  had  the  assurance  to  go  and  write  to  her,  I  do  be- 
lieve ! ' 

She  stood  looking  at  it,  doubtful,  suspicious,  uneasy ; 
then  turned  into  the  dairy  for  fear  Diana  might  surprise 
her,  while  she  opened  Mrs.  Reverdy's  note.  She  had  a 
vague  idea  that  both  epistles  might  relate  to  the  same  sub- 
ject. But  this  one  was  innocent  enough,  at  least.  Hiding 
the  large  letter  in  her  bosom,  she  came  back  and  gave  the 
invitation  to  Diana,  whose  foot  she  had  heard. 

'  At  Elmfield  !  What  an  odd  thing.  Will  you  go,  mother?' 

'  I  always  go,  don't  I  ?  What's  the  reason  I  shouldn't 
go  now  ? ' 

1 1  didn't  know  whether  you  would  like  to  go  there.' 

'What  if  I  don't?  No,  I  don't  care  particularly  about 
goin'  to  Elmfield ;  they're  a  kind  o'  stuck  up  folks  ;  but 
I'll  go  to  let  them  see  that  I  ain't.' 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  ;  then  Mrs.  Starling  broke 
it  by  inquiring  if  Diana  had  finished  her  chintz  gown? 
Diana  had. 

'  I'd  wear  it,  if  I  was  you.' 

'  Why,  mother  ? ' 

'  Let  'em  see  that  other  folks  can  dress  as  well  as  them. 

'  O  mother,  my  dresses  are  nothing,  alongside  of  theirs.' 

'  What's  the  reason  they  ain't  ? '  inquired  Mrs.  Starling, 
looking:  incredulous. 


156  DIANA. 

.  'Their  things  are  beautiful,  mother;  more  costly  a 
great  deal ;  and  fashionable.  We  can't  make  things  so  in 
Pleasant  Valley.  We  don't  know  how.' 

'  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  that,'  rejoined  Mrs.  Starling. 
'  One  fashion's  as  good  as  another.  Anyhow,  there's  better 
lookin'  folks  in  Pleasant  Valley  than  ever  called  them- 
selves Bowdoin,  or  Knowlton  either.  So  be  as  smart  as 
you  can,  Diana.  I  guess  you  needn't  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self.' 

Diana  thought  of  nothing  less.  Indeed  she  thought 
little  about  her  appearance.  While  she  was  putting  on 
her  bright  chintz  dress,  there  was  perhaps  a  movement  of 
desire  that  she  might  seem  pleasant  in  the  eyes  of  Evan's 
people  ;  something  that  he  need  not  be  ashamed  of ;  but 
her  heart  was  too  full  of  richer  thoughts  to  have  much 
room  for  such  as  these.  For  Evan  had  chosen  her  ;  Evan 
loved  her  ;  the  secret  bond  between  them  nothing  on  earth 
could  undo ;  and  any  day  now  that  first  letter  of  his  might 
arrive,  which  her  eyes  were  bright  only  to  think  of  looking 
upon.  Poor  Diana  !  that  letter  was  jammed  up  within  the 
bones  of  Mrs.  Starling's  stays. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   MEETING   AT   ELMFIELD. 

IT  was  one  of  the  royal  days  of  a  New  England  autumn  ; 
the  air  clear  and  bracing  and  spicy ;  the  light  golden  and 
glowing,  and  yet  softened  to  the  dreamiest,  richest,  most 
bounteous  aureole  of  hope,  by  a  slight  impalpable  haze  ; 
too  slight  to  veil  anything,  but  giving  its  tender  flattery  to 
the  landscape  nevertheless.  And  through  that  to  the 
mind.  Who  can  help  but  receive  it?  Suggestions  of  wave- 
less  peace,  of  endless  delight,  of  a  world-full  glory  that 
must  fill  one's  life  with  riches,  come  through  such  a  light 
and  under  such  a  sky.  Diana's  life  was  full  already  ;  but 
she  took  the  promise  for  all  the  years  that  stretched  out  in 
the  future.  The  soft  autumn  sky  where  the  clouds  were  at 
rest,  having  done  their  work,  bore  no  symbol  of  the  storms 
that  might  come  beneath  the  firmament ;  the  purple  and 
gold  and  crimson  of  nature's  gala  dress  seemed  to  fling 
their  soft  luxury  around  the  beholder,  enfolding  him,  as  it 
were,  from  all  the  dust  and  the  dimness  and  the  dullness 
of  this  world's  working  days  forever  more.  So  it  was  to 
Diana ;  and  all  the  miles  of  that  long  drive,  joggingly 
pulled  along  by  Prince,  she  rode  in  a  chariot  of  the  imagi- 
nation, traversing  fields  of  thought  and  of  space,  now  to 
Evan  and  now  with  him  ;  and  in  her  engrossment  spoke 
never  a  word  from  the  time  she  mounted  into  the  wagon 
till  they  came  in  sight  of  Elmfield.  And  Mrs.  Starling  hail 


158  DIANA. 

her  own  subjects  for  thought,  and  was  as  silent  on  her 
part.  She  was  thinking  all  the  way,  what  she  should  do 
with  that  letter  ?  Suppose  things  had  gone  too  far  -to  be 
stopped  ?  But  Diana  had  told  her  nothing  ;  she  was  not 
bound  to  know  by  guess-work.  And  if  this  were  the  be- 
ginning of  serious  proposals,  then  it  were  better  known  to 
but  herself  only.  She  resolved  finally  to  watch  Diana  and 
the  Elmfield  people  this  afternoon  ;  she  could  find  out,  she 
thought,  whether  there  were  any  matter  of  common  inter- 
est between  them.  With  all  this,  Mrs.  Starling's  temper 
was  not  sweetened. 

Elmfield  was  a  rare  place.  Not  by  the  work  of  art  or  the 
craft  of  the  gardener  at  all ;  for  a  cunning  workman  had  never 
touched  its  turf  or  its  plantations.  Indeed  it  had  no  plan- 
tations, other  than  such  as  were  intended  for  pure  use  and 
profit ;  great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  and  acres  of  wheat  and 
rye,  and  a  plot  of  garden  cabbages.  Mrs.  Reverdy's  power 
of  reform  had  reached  only  the  household  affairs.  But  the 
corn  and  the  rye  and  the  cabbages  were  out  of  sight  from 
the  immediate  home  field  ;  and  there  the  grace  of  nature 
had  been  so  great  that  one  almost  forgot  to  wish  that  any- 
thing had  been  added  to  it.  A  little  river  swept,  curving 
in  sweet  leisure,  through  a  large  level  tract  of  greenest 
meadows.  In  front  of  one  of  these  large  curves  the  house 
stood,  but  well  back,  so  that  the  meadow  served  instead  of 
a  lawn.  It  had  no  foreign  beauties  of  tree  growth  to  adorn 
it,  nor  needed  them  ;  for  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  from 
space  to  space,  irregularly,  rose  a  huge  New  England  elm, 
giving  the  shelter  of  its  canopy  of  branches  to  a  wide  spot 
of  turf.  The  house  added  nothing  to  the  scene,  beyond  the 
human  interest ;  it  was  just  a  large  old  farmhouse,  nothing 
more  ;  draped  however  and  half  covered  up,  by  other  elms 
and  a  few  fir  trees.  But  in  front  of  it  lay  this  wide,  sunny 


A   MEETING   AT   ELMFIELD.  159 

level  meadow,  with  the  wilful  little  stream  meandering 
through,with  the  stately  old  trees  spotting  it  and  breaking  its 
monotony  •  and  in  the  distance  a  soft  outline  of  hills,  not  too 
far  away,  and  varied  enough  to  be  picturesque,  rounded 
in  the  whole  picture.  A  picture  one  would  stand  long  to 
look  at ;  thoroughly  New  England  and  characteristic  •  gentle, 
homelike,  lovely,  with  just  a  touch  of  wildness  intimating 
that  you  were  beyond  the  rules  of  conventionality.  Being 
New  England  folk  themselves,  Mrs.  Starling  and  Diana  of 
course  would  not  read  some  of  these  features.  They  only 
thought  it  was  a  "  fine  place." 

Long  before  they  got  there  this  afternoon,  before  any- 
body got  there,  the  ladies  of  the  family  gathered  upon  the 
wide  old  piazza. 

'  It's  as  a  good  as  a  play,'  said  Gertrude  Masters.  '  I 
never  saw  such  society  in  my  life,  and  I  am  curious  to  know 
what  they  will  be  like.' 

'  You  have  seen  them  in  church,'  said  Euphemia. 

'  Yes,  but  they  all  feel  poky  there.  I  can't  tell  anything 
by  that.  Besides,  I  don't  hear  them  talk.  There's  some- 
body now  ! ' 

'  Too  fast  for  any  of  our  good  sewing  friends,'  said  Mrs. 
Reverdy ;  '  and  there  is  no  wagon.  It's  Mr.  Masters, 
Gerty !  How  he  does  ride  ;  and  yet  he  sits  as  if  he  was 
upon  a  rocking-horse.' 

'I  don't  think  he'd  sit  very  quiet  upon  a  rocking-horse,' 
said  Gerty.  And  then  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  shouted 
musically  a  salutation  to  the  approaching  rider. 

He  alighted  presently  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and  throw- 
ing the  bridle  over  his  horse's  head,  joined  the  party. 

'  So  delighted  !  '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  graciously.  '  You 
are  come  just  in  time  to  help  us  take  care  of  the  people.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  entertain  the  nation  ? '  asked  Mr 
Masters. 


l6O  DIANA. 

'  Only  Pleasant  Valley,'  Mrs.  Reverdy  answered  with 
her  little  laugh ;  which  might  mean  amusement  at  herself 
or  condescension  to  Pleasant  Valley.  '  Do  you  think  they 
will  be  hard  to  entertain  ? ' 

'  I  can  answer  for  one  '  said  the  minister.  '  And  looking 
at  what  there  is  to  see  from  here,  I  could  almost  answer 
for  them  all.'  He  was  considering  the  wide  sunlit  meadow, 
where  the  green  and  the  gold,yea,  and  the  very  elm  shadows, 
as  well  as  the  distant  hills,  were  spiritualized  by  the  slight 
soft  haze. 

'  Why  what  is  there  to  see,  Basil  ? '  inquired  his  cousin 
Gertrude. 

'  The  sky.' 

'You  don't  think  that  is  entertaining,  I  hope?  If  you 
were  a  polite  man,  you  would  have  said  something  else.' 

She  was  something  to  see  herself,  in  one  sense,  and  the 
something  was  pretty  too  ;  but  very  self-conscious.  From 
her  flow  of  curly  tresses  down  to  the  rosettes  on  her  slippers, 
every  inch  of  her  shewed  it.  Now  the  best  dressing  surely 
avoids  this  effect ;  while  there  is  some,  and  not  bad  dress- 
ing either,  which  proclaims  it  in  every  detail.  The  crinkles 
of  Gertrude's  hair  were  crisp  with  it ;  her  French  print 
dress,  beautiful  in  itself,  was  made  with  French  daintiness 
and  worn  with  at  least  equal  coquettishness  ;  her  wrists 
bore  two  or  three  bracelets  both  valuable  and  delicate  ;  and 
Gertrude's  eyes,  pretty  eyes  too,  were  audacious  with  the 
knowledge  of  all  this.  Audacious  in  a  sweet  secret  way, 
understand  ;  they  were  not  bold  eyes,  openly.  Her  cousin 
looked  her  over,  with  a  glance  quite  recognizant  of  all  I 
have  described,  yet  destitute  of  a  shade  of  compliment  or 
even  of  admiration  ;  very  clear  and  very  cool. 

'  Basil,  you  don't  say  all  you  think  ! '  exclaimed  the 
young  lady. 


A    MEETING   AT   ELMFIELD.  l6l 

'Not  always,' said  her  cousin.  'We  have  it  on  Solo- 
mon's authority,  that  a  "  fool  uttereth  all  his  mind.  A  wise 
man  keepeth  it  till  afterwards."  ' 

'  What  are  you  keeping  ? ' 

But  the  answer  was  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Reverdy. 

'  Where  shall  we  put  them,  do  you  think,  Mr.  Masters  ? 
I'm  quite  anxious.  Here,  on  the  verandah,  do  you  think  ? 
— or  on  the  green,  where  we  mean  to  have  supper  ?  or 
would  it  be  better  to  go  into  the  house  ? ' 

'  As  a  general  principle,  Mrs.  Reverdy,  I  object  to 
houses.  When  you  can,  keep  out  of  them.  So  I  say. 
And  there  comes  one  of  your  guests.  I  will  take  my  horse 
out  of  the  road.' 

Mrs.  Reverdy  objected  and  protested  and  ran  to  sum- 
mon a  servant,  but  the  minister  had  his  way  and  led  his 
horse  off  to  the  stable.  While  he  was  gone,  the  little  old 
green  wagon  which  brought  Miss  Barry  came  at  a  soft  jog 
up  the  drive  and  stopped  before  the  door.  Mrs.  Reverdy 
came  flying  out  and  then  down  the  steps  to  help  her  alight. 

'  It's  a  long  ways  to  your  place,  Mis'  Reverdy  ;  I  de- 
clare, I'm  kind  o'  stiff,'  said  the  old  lady  as  she  mounted 
to  the  piazza.  There  she  stood  still  and  surveyed  the  pros- 
pect. And  her  conclusion  burst  forth  in  an  unequivocal, 
'  Ain't  it  elegant ! ' 

'  I  am  delighted  you  like  it,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  with 
her  running  laugh.  '  Won't  you  sit  down  ? ' 

'  I  hain't  got  straightened  out  yet,  after  drivin'  the  horse 
so  long.  It  does  put  me  in  a  kind  o'  cramp,  somehow,  to 
drive, — 'most  allays.' 

'  Is  the  horse  so  hard-mouthed  ? ' 

'  La  !  bless  you,  I  never  felt  of  his  mouth.  He  don't 
do  nothin' ;  I  don't  expect  he  would  do  nothin' ;  but  I 
allays  think,  he's  a  horse,  and  there's  no  tellin'.' 


1 62  DIANA. 

'  That's  very  true,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy,  the  laugh  of 
condescending  acquiescence  mingled  with  a  little  sense  of 
fun  now.  '  But  do  sit  down  ;  you'll  be  tired  standing.' 

1  There's  Mrs.  Flandin's  waggin,  I  guess,  comin' ; 
she  was  'most  ready  when  I  come  by.  Is  this  your  sister  ? ' 
— looking  at  Gertrude. 

'  No,  the  other  is  my  sister.  This  is  Miss  Masters  ;  a 
cousin  of  your  minister.' 

'  I  thought  she  was,  maybe, —  your  sister,  I  mean, — • 
because  she  had  her  hair  the  same  way.  Ain't  it  very 
uncomfortable  ? '  This  to  Gertrude. 

'  It  is  very  comfortable,'  said  the  young  lady ;  '  except 
in  hot  weather.' 

'  Don't  say  it  is  ! '  quoth  Miss  Barry  looking  at  the  as- 
tonishing hair  while  she  got  out  her  needles.  '  Seems  to  me 
I  should  feel  as  if  my  hair  never  was  combed.' 

'  Not  if  it  was  combed,  would  you  ? '  said  Gertrude 
gravely. 

'  Well,  yes ;  seems  to  me  I  should.  I  allays  liked  to 
have  my  hair  sleeked  up  as  tight  as  I  could  get  it ;  and 
then  I  knowed  there  warn't  none  of  it  flyin'.  But  la  !  it's 
a  long  time  since  I  was  young,  and  there's  new  fashions. 
Is  the  minister  your  cousin  ? ' 

'  Yes.     How  do  you  like  him  ?  ' 

'  I  hain't  got  accustomed  to  him  yet,'  said  the  little 
old  lady,  clicking  her  needles  with  a  considerate  air.  '  He 
ain't  like  Mr.  Hardenburgh,  you  see  ;  and  Mr.  Harden- 
burgh  was  the  minister  afore  him  ? ' 

'  What  was  the  difference  ?' 

'  Well  —  Mr.  Hardenburgh,  you  could  tell  he  was  a 
minister  as  fur  as  you  could  see  him  ;  he  had  that  look. 
Now  Mr.  Masters  hain't ;  he's  just  like  other  folks  ;  only 
he's  more  pleasant  than  most.' 


A   MEETING  AT   ELMFIELD.  163 

'  Oh,  he  is  more  pleasant,  is  he  ? ' 

'  Well,  seems  to  me  he  is,'  said  the  little  old  lady. 
'  It  allays  makes  me  feel  kind  o'  good  when  he  comes 
alongside.  He's  cheerful.  Mr.  Hardenburgh  was  a  good 
man,  but  he  made  me  afeard  of  him  ;  he  was  sort  o'  fierce, 
in  the  pulpit  and  out  o'  the  pulpit.  Mr.  Masters  ain't  nary 
one.' 

'  Do  you  think  he's  a  good  preacher,  then  ? '  said 
Gertrude  demurely,  bending  over  to  look  at  Miss  Barry's 
.knitting. 

'  Well,  I  do  ! '  said  the  old  lady.  '  There  !  I  ain't  no 
judge  ;  but  I  love  to  sit  and  hear  him.  'Tain't  a  bit  like  a 
minister,  nother  ;  though  it's  in  church  ;  he  just  speaks 
like  as  I  am  speakin'  to  you ;  but  he  makes  the  Bible  kind 
o'  interestinV 

It  was  very  well  for  Gertrude  that  Mrs.  Carpenter  now 
came  to  take  her  seat  on  the  piazza,  and  the  conversation 
changed.  She  had  got  about  as  much  as  she  could  bear. 
And  after  Mrs.  Carpenter  came  a  crowd ;  Mrs.  Flandin, 
and  Mrs.  Mansfield,  and  Miss  Gunn,  and  all  the  rest, 
with  short  interval,  driving  up  and  unloading  and 
joining  the  circle  on  the  piazza  ;  which  grew  a  very  wide 
circle  indeed,  and  at  last  broke  up  into  divisions.  Gertrude 
was  obliged  to  suspend  operations  for  a  while,  and  use  her 
eyes  instead  of  her  tongue.  Most  of  the  rest  were  inclined 
to  do  the  same  ;  and  curious  glances  went  about  in  every 
direction,  not  missing  Miss  Masters  herself.  Some  people 
were  absolutely  tongue-tied ;  others  used  their  oppor- 
tunity. 

'  Don't  the  wind  come  drefful  cold  over  them  flats  in 
winter  ?  '  asked  one  good  lady  who  had  never  been  at 
Elmfield  before.  Mrs.  Reverdy's  little  running  laugh  was 
ready  with  her  answer. 


164  DIANA. 

'  I  believe  it  does  ;  but  we  are  never  here  in  winter. 
It's  too  cold.' 

'  Your  gran'ther's  here,  ain't  he  ? '  queried  Mrs.  Salter. 

'  Yes  ;  O  yes  ;  grandpa  is  here  of  course.  I  don't  sup- 
pose anything  would  draw  him  away  from  the  old  place.' 

'  How  big  is  the  farm  ? '  went  on  the  first  speaker. 

Mrs.  Reverdy  did  not  know ;  three  or  four  hundred 
acres,  she  believed.  Or  it  might  be  five.  She  did  not  know 
the  difference  ! 

'  I  guess  your  father  misses  you  when  you  all  go  away,' 
remarked  Mrs.  Flandin,  who  had  hardly  spoken,  at  least 
aloud. 

The  reply  was  prevented,  for  Mrs.  Starling's  wagon 
drew  up  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and  Mrs.  Reverdy  hastened 
down  to  give  her  assistance  to  the  ladies  in  alighting. 
Gertrude  also  suspended  what  she  was  saying,  and  gave 
her  undivided  attention  to  the  view  of  Diana. 

She  was  only  a  country  girl,  Miss  Masters  said  to  her- 
self. Yet  what  a  lovely  figure,  as  she  stood  there  before 
the  wagon  ;  perfectly  proportioned,  light  and  firm  in  action 
or  attitude,  with  the  grace  of  absolute  health  and  strength 
and  faultless  make.  More  ;  there  always  is  more  to  it ;  and 
Gertrude  felt  that  without  in  the  least  having  power  to 
reason  about  it ;  felt  in  the  quiet  pose  and  soft  motion  those 
spirit  indications  of  calm  and  strength  and  gracious  dignity, 
which  belonged  to  the  fair  proportions  and  wholesome 
soundness  of  the  inward  character.  The  face  said  the 
same  thing,  when  it  was  turned  and  Diana  came  up  the  steps; 
though  it  was  seen  under  a  white  sunbonnet  only ;  the 
straight  brows,  the  large  quiet  eyes,  the  soft  creamy  colour 
of  the  skin,  all  testified  to  the  fine  physical  and  menta/ 
conditions  of  this  creature.  And  Gertrude  felt  as  she 
looked,  that  it  would  not  have  been  very  surprising  if 


A  MEETING   AT    ELMFIELD.  165 

Evan  Knowlton  or  any  other  young  officer  had  lost  his 
heart  to  her.  But  she  isn't  dressed,  thought  Gertrude  ; 
and  the  next  moment  a  shadow  crossed  her  heart  as 
Diana's  sunbonnet  came  off ;  and  a  wealth  of  dark  hair 
was  revealed,  knotted  into  a  crown  of  nature's  devising, 
which  art  could  never  outdo.  '  I'll  find  out  about  Evan,' 
said  Miss  Masters  to  herself. 

She  had  to  wait.  The  company  was  large  no%v,  and 
the  buzz  of  tongues  considerable  ;  though  nothing  like 
what  had  been  in  Mrs.  Starling's  parlour.  So  soon  as  the 
two  new  comers  were  fairly  seated  and  at  work,  Mrs.  Flan- 
din  took  up  the  broken  thread  of  her  discourse. 

'Ain't your  father  kind  o'  lonesome  here  in  the  winters, 
all  by  himself  ? ' 

'  My  grandfather,  you  mean  ? '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy, 

'  I  mean  your  grandfather.  I  forget  you  ain't  his  own  ; 
but  it  makes  no  difference.  Don't  he  want  you  to  hum  all 
the  year  round.' 

'  I  dare  say  he  would  like  it.' 

'  He's  gettin'  on  in  years  now.  How  old  is  Squire  Bou- 
doin  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy.  '  He's  between 
seventy  and  eighty,  somewhere/ 

'  You  won't  have  him  long  with  you.' 

'  O  I  hope  so ! '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  lightly,  and  with  the 
unfailing  laugh  which  went  with  everything ;  '  I  think 
grandpa  is  stronger  than  I  am.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd 
outlive  me' 

Still,  don't  you  think  it  is  your  duty  to  stay  with  him.' 

Mrs.  Reverdy  laughed  again.  '  I  suppose  we  don't  al- 
ways do  our  duty,'  she  said.  '  It's  too  cold  here  in  the 
winter — after  October,  or  September — for  me.' 

*  Then  it  is  not  your  duty  to  be  here,'  said  her  sister 


l66  DIANA. 

Euphemia  somewhat  distinctly.  But  Mrs.  Flandin  was 
bound  to  '  free  her  mind  '  of  what  was  upon  it. 

'  I  should  think  the  Squire'd  want  Evan  to  hum,'  she 
went  on. 

'  It  would  be  very  nice  if  Evan  could  be  in  two  places 
at  once,'  Mrs.  Reverdy  owned  conciliatingly. 

'  Where  is  Captain  Knowlton  now  ? '  asked  Mrs.  Bod- 
dington. 

'O  he  is  not  a  captain  yet,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy.  He  is 
only  a  lieutenant.  I  don't  know  when  he'll  get  any 
higher  than  that.  He's  a  great  way  off — on  the  frontier — 
watching  the  Indians.' 

'  I  should  think  it  was  pleasanter  work  to  watch  sheep.' 
said  Mrs.  Flandm.  '  Don't  it  make  you  feel  bad  to  have 
him  away  so  fur  ? ' 

'  O  we're  accustomed  to  having  him  away,  you  know  ; 
Evan  has  never  been  at  home  ;  we  really  don't  know  him 
as  well  as  strangers  do.  We  have  just  got  a  letter  from 
him  at  his  new  post.' 

They  had  got  a  letter  from  him !  Two  bounds  Diana's 
heart  made  :  the  first  with  a  pang  of  pain  that  they  should 
have  the  earliest  word,  the  next  with  a  pang  of  joy,  at  the 
certainty  that  hers  must  be  lying  in  the  post-office  for  her. 
The  blood  flowed  and  ebbed  in  her  veins  with  the  violent 
action  of  extreme  excitement.  Yet  nature  did  for  this  girl 
what  only  the  practice  and  training  of  society  do  for  others  ; 
she  gave  no  outward  sign.  Her  head  was  not  lifted  from 
her  work ;  the  colour  of  her  cheek  did  not  change  ;  and 
when  a  moment  after  she  found  Miss  Masters  at  her  side 
and  heard  her  speaking,  Diana  looked  and  answered  with 
the  utmost  seeming  composure. 

'  I've  been  trying  ever  since  you  came  to  get  round  to 
you,'  Gertrude  whispered.  '  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again.'' 


A   MEETING   AT  ELMFIELD.  1 67 

But  here  Mrs.  Flandin  broke  in.    She  was  seated  near 

'  Ain't  your  hair  a  great  trouble  to  you  ? ' 

Gertrude  gave  it  a  little  toss  and  looked  up. 

'  How  do  you  get  it  all  flying  like  that  ?' 

'  Everybody's  hair  is  a  trouble,'  said  Gertrude.  '  This 
is  as  little  as  any.' 

'Do  you  sleep  with  it  all  round  your  shoulders?  I 
should  think  you'd  be  in  a  net  by  morning.' 

'  I  suppose  you  would,'  said  Gertrude. 

'  Is  that  the  fashion  now  ?  " 

'  It  is  one  fashion,'  Miss  Masters  responded. 

'  If  it  warn't,  I  reckon  you'd  do  it  up  pretty  quick. 
Dear  me  !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  in  the  fashion,  I  do  sup- 
pose.' 

'  Don't  you  like  it  yourself,  ma'am  ? '  queried  Ger- 
trude. 

'  Never  try.     Pve  something  else  to  do  in  life.' 

'Well,  but  there's  no  harm  in  being  in  the  fashion, 
Mis'  Flandin,'  said  Miss  Gunn.  '  The  minister  said  he 
thought  there  warn't.' 

'  The  minister  had  better  take  care  of  himself,'  Mrs. 
Flandin  retorted. 

Whereupon  they  all  opened  upon  her.  And  it  could 
be  seen  that  for  the  few  months  during  which  he  had 
been  among  them,  the  minister  had  made  swift  progress  in 
the  regards  of  the  people.  Scarce  a  tongue  now  but  spoke 
in  his  praise  or  his  justification,  or  called  Mrs.  Flandin  to 
account  for  her  hasty  remark. 

'  When  you're  all  done,  I'll  speak,'  said  that  lady  coolly. 
'  I'm  not  a  man-worshipper ;  never  was ;  and  nobody's  fit 
to  be  worshipped.  /  should  like  to  see  the  dominie  put 
down  that  grey  horse  of  his.' 

'  Are  grey  horses  fashionable  ? '  inquired  Mrs.  Reverdy 
with  her  little  laugh. 


168  DIANA. 

1  What  would  he  do  without  his  horse  ? '  said  Mrs.  Bod 
dington.  '  How  could  he  fly  round  Pleasant  Valley  as  he 
does  ? ' 

'  He  ain't  bound  to  fly/  said  Mrs.  Flandin. 

'  How's  he  to  get  round  to  folks,  then  ? '  said  Mrs.  Sal- 
ter.  '  The  houses  are  pretty  scattering  in  these  parts ;  he'd 
be  a  spry  man  if  he  could  walk  it.' 

'  Seems  to  me,  that  'ere  grey  hoss  is  real  handy,'  said 
quiet  Miss  Barry,  who  never  contradicted  anybody.  'When 
Meliny  was  sick,  Mr.  Masters'd  be  there,  to  our  house,  early 
in  the  mornin'  and  late  at  night ;  and  he  allays  had  com- 
fort with  him.  There  !  I  got  to  set  as  much  by  the  sight 
o'  that  grey  hoss,  you  wouldn't  think !  just  to  hear  him 
come  gallopin'  down  the  road  did  me  good.' 

'  Yes,  and  so  it  was  to  our  house,  when  Liz  was  over- 
turned,' said  Mary  Delamater.  '  He'd  be  there  every  day, 
just  as  punctual  as  could  be ;  and  he  could  never  have 
walked  over.  It's  a  cruel  piece  of  road  between  our  house 
and  his'n.' 

'  I  don't  want  him  to  walk,'  said  Mrs.  Flandin  ;  '  there's 
more  ways  than  one  o'  doin'  most  things  ;  but  I  do  say,  all 
the  ministers  ever  I  see  druv  a  team  ;  and  it  looks  more 
religious.  To  see  the  minister  flyin'  over  the  hills  like  a 
racer,  is  altogether  to  gay  for  my  likin's.' 

'  But  he  ain't  gay,'  said  Miss  Gunn,  looking  appalled. 

'He's  mighty  spry,  for  anybody  that  gets  up  into  a  pul- 
pit on  the  Sabbath  and  tells  his  fellow  creaturs  what  they 
ought  to  be  doin'.' 

'  But  he  does  do  that,  Mrs.  Flandin,'  said  Diana.  *  He 
speaks  plain  enough,  too.' 

'  I  do  love  to  hear  him  ! '  said  Miss  Barry.  '  There, 
his  words  seem  to  .go  all  through  me  and  clear  up  my  want 
of  understandin' ;  for  I  never  was  smart,  you  know  ;  but 


A    MEETING   AT   ELMFIELD.  169 

seems  to  me  I  see  things  as  well  agin  when  he's  been  talkin' 
to  me.  I  say,  it  was  a  good  day  when  he  come  to  Pleasant 
Valley.' 

'  He  ain't  what  you  call  an  eloquent  man,'  said  Miss 
Babbage,  the  schoolmaster's  sister. 

'  What  is  an  "  eloquent  "  man,  Lottie  Babbage  ? '  Mrs. 
Boddington  asked.  '  It's  a  word,  I  know ;  but  what  is  the 
thing  the  word  means  ?  Come,  you  ought  to  be  good  at 
definitions. 

'  Mr.  Masters  don't  pretend  to  be  an  eloquent  man  ! ' 
cried  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

'Well,  tell ;  come  !  what  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  I'd  like 
to  know,'  said  Mrs.  Boddington.  'I  admire  to  get  my 
idees  straight.  What  is  it  he  don't  pretend  to  be  ? ' 

'  I  don't  think  he  pretends  to  be  anything,'  said  Diana. 

'Only  to  have  his  own  way  wherever  he  goes,'  added 
Diana's  mother. 

'  I'd  be  content  to  let  him  have  his  own  way,'  said  Mrs. 
Carpenter.  '  It's  pretty  sure  to  be  a  good  way ;  that's  what 
/think.  I  wisht  he  had  it,  for  my  part.' 

'And  yet  he  isn't  eloquent?'  said  Mrs.  Boddington. 

'  Well,'  said  Miss  Babbage  with  some  difficulty,  '  he  just 
says  what  he  has  got  to  say,  and  takes  the  handiest  words  he 
can  find  ;  but  I've  heard  men  that  eloquent  that  they'd 
keep  you  wonderin'  at  'em  from  the  beginning  of  their  ser- 
mon to  the  end;  and  you'd  got  to  be  smart  to  know  what 
they  were  sayin'.  A  child  can  tell  what  Mr.  Masters 
means.' 

'  So  kin  I,'  said  Miss  Barry.  '  I'm  thankful  I  kin.  And 
I  don't  want  a  man  more  eloquent  than  he  is,  for  my 
preachin'.' 

'  It  ain't  movin'  preachin','  said  Mrs.  Flandin. 

'  It  moves  the  folks,'  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.     '  I  don't 


I/O  DIANA. 

know  what  you'd  hev',  Mis'  Flandin  ;  there's  Liz  Delama- 
ter,  and  Florry  Mason,  jined  the  church  lately ;  and  old 
Lupton ;  and  my  Jim,'  she  added  with  softened  voice  ;  '  and 
there's  several  more  serious.' 

No  more  could  be  said,  for  the  minister  himself  came 
upon  the  scene  at  this  instant.  There  was  not  an  eye  that 
did  not  brighten  at  the  sight  of  him,  with  the  exception  of 
Mrs.  Starling  and  Diana  ;  there  was  not  a  lady  there  who 
was  not  manifestly  glad  to  have  him  come  near  and  speak  to 
her;  even  Airs.  Flandin  herself,  beside  whom  the  minister 
presently  sat  down  and  entered  into  conversati  on  respecting 
some  new  movement  in  parish  matters,  for  which  he  wished 
to  enlist  her  help.  General  conversation  returned  to  its 
usual  channels. 

'  I  can't  stand  this,'  whispered  Gertrude  to  Diana  ;  '  I 
am  tired  to  death.  Do  come  down  and  walk  over  to  the 
river  with  me.  Do !  you  can  work  another  day.' 

Diana  hesitated  ;  glanced  around  her.  It  was  manifest 
that  this  avas  an  exceptional  meeting  of  the  society,  and 
not  for  the  purposes  of  work  chiefly.  Here  and  there 
needles  were  suspended  in  lingering  ringers,  while  their 
owners  made  subdued  comments  to  each  other  or  used 
their  eyes  for  purposes  of  information  getting.  One  or  two 
had  even  left  work,  and  were  going  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
through  the  hall,  to  see  the  garden.  Diana  not  very  un- 
willingly dropped  her  sewing  and  followed  her  conductor 
down  the  steps  and  over  the  meadow. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CATECHISING. 

'  THE  sun  isn't  hot,  through  all  this  cloud,'  said  Gertrude, 
4  so  I  don't  mind  it.  "We'll  get  into  the  shade  under  the  elm 
yonder.' 

'  There  is  no  cloud,'  said  Diana. 

'  No  cloud  ?  What  is  it  then.  Something  has  come  over 
the  sun.' 

'  No,  it's  haze.' 

'  What  is  haze  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  We  have  it  in  Indian  summer,  and 
sometimes  in  October,  like  this.' 

'  Isn't  it  hot  ? '  said  Gertrude.  '  And  last  week  we  were 
having  big  fires.  It's  such  queer  weather.  Now  this  shade 
is  nice.' 

Under  one  or  two  of  the  elm  canopies  along  the  verge 
of  the  little  river  some  rustic  seats  had  been  fixed.  Gertrude 
sat  down.  Diana  stood,  looking  about  her.  The  dreamy 
beauty  through  which  she  had  ridden  that  afternoon  was  all 
round  her  still ;  and  the  meadow  and  the  scattered  elms, 
with  the  distant  softly  rounded  hills,  were  one  of  New 
England's  combinations,  in  which  the  gentlest  beauty  and 
the  most  characteristic  strength  meet  and  mingle.  But 
what  was  more  yet  to  Diana,  she  was  among  Evan's 
haunts.  Here  he  was  at  home.  There  seemed  to  her 
fancy  to  be  a  consciousness  of  him  in  the  silent  trees  and 

171 


1/2  DIANA. 

river  ;  as  if  they  would  say  if  they  could, — as  if  they  were  say- 
ing mutely — "  We  know  him  — we  know  him  ;  and  we  are 
old  friends  of  his.  We  could  tell  you  a  great  deal  about  him." 

'  Elmfield  is  a  pretty  place,'  said  Gertrude.  She  had 
been  eyeing  her  companion  while  Diana  was  receiving  the 
confidences  of  the  trees. 

'  Lovely  ! ' 

'  If  it  didn't  grow  so  cold  in  winter ! '  said  the  young 
lady  shrugging  her  airy  shoulders. 

'  I  like  the  cold.' 

'  I  should  like  to  have  it  always  hot  enough  to  wear 
muslin  dresses.  Come,  sit  down.  Evan  put  these  seats 
here.' 

But  Diana  continued  standing. 

'  Did  you  hear  that  woman  scolding  because  he  don't 
stay  here  and  give  up  his  army  life  ? ' 

'  She  takes  her  own  view  of  it,'  said  Diana. 

'  Do  you  think  he  ought  to  give  up  everything  to  take 
care  of  his  grandfather  ?' 

'  I  dare  say  his  grandfather  likes  to  have  him  do  as  he 
is  doing.' 

'  But  it  must  be  awfully  hard,  mustn't  it,  for  them  to 
have  him  so  far  away,  and  fighting  the  Indians  ? ' 

'Is  he  fighting  the  Indians?'  Diana  asked  quietly  ; 
though  she  made  the  words  quiet,  she  knew,  by  sheer  force 
of  necessity.  But  quiet  they  were  ;  slow,  and  shewing  no 
eagerness  ;  while  her  pulse  had  made  one  mad  jump  and 
then  seemed  to  stand  still. 

'  O  the  Indians  are  always  making  trouble,  you  know, 
on  the  frontier ;  that's  what  our  men  are  there  for,  to 
watch  them.  I  didn't  mean  that  Evan  was  fighting  just  at 
this  minute  ;  but  he  might  be.  any  minute.  Shouldn't  you 
feel  bad  if  he  was  your  brother  ? ' 


CATECHISING.  1/3 

'  Mrs.  Reverdy  doesn't  seem  to  be  uneasy.' 

'  She  ?  no,'  said  Gertrude  with  a  laugh ;  '  nothing 
makes  her  uneasy.  Except  thinking  that  Evan  has  fallen 
in  love  with  somebody.' 

'  She  must  expect  that  sooner  or  later,'  said  Diana,  with 
a  calmness  which  told  her  companion  nothing. 

'  Ah,  but  she  would  rather  have  it  later.  She  don't 
want  to  lose  Evan.  She  is  very  proud  of  him.' 

'  Would  she  lose  him  in  such  a  case  ? '  Diana  asked 
smiling  ;  though  she  wished  the  talk  ended. 

'  Why,  you  know  brothers  are  good  for  nothing  to  sis- 
ters after  they  are  married,  —  worse  !  they  are  tantalizing. 
You  are  obliged  to  see  what  you  used  to  have,  in  somebody 
else's  possession  —  and  much  more  than  ever  you  used  to 
have;  and  it's  tiresome.  I'm  glad  I've  no  brothers. 
Basil  is  a  good  deal  like  a  brother,  and  I  am  jealous  of 
him? 

'It  must  be  very  uncomfortable  to  be  jealous,'  said 
Diana, 

'  Horrid ! — You  saw  a  good  deal  of  Evan,  didn't  you  ? ' 

A  question  that  might  have  embarrassed  Diana  if  she 
had  not  had  an  instant  perception  of  the  intent  of  it.  She 
answered  thereupon  with  absolute  self-possession, 

'I  don't  know  what  you  would  call  a  "good  deal."  I 
saw  what  /call  a  good  deal  of  him  that  day  in  the  black- 
berry field.' 

'  Don't  you  think  he  is  charming  ?  ' 

Diana  laughed  and  was  vexed  to  feel  her  cheeks  grow 
warm. 

'  That's  a  word  that  belongs  to  women.' 

'  Not  to  many  of  'em ! '  said  Gertrude,  with  a  slight 
turning  up  of  her  pretty  nose.  Then,  struck  with  the  fine, 
pure  face  and  very  lovely  figure  before  her,  she  suddenly 
added, 


1/4  DIANA. 

'  Didn't  he  think  you  charming  ? ' 

'  Are  you  laughing  at  me  ? '  said  Diana. 

'  No,  indeed  I  am  not.  Didn't  he  ? '  said  Gertrude 
caressingly. 

Amusement  almost  carried  off  the  temptation  to  be 
provoked.  Diana  laughed  merrily  as  she  answered,  '  Do 
you  think  a  person  of  so  good  taste  would  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  do,'  said  Gertrude  half  sulkily,  for  she  was  baf- 
fled, and  besides,  her  words  spoke  the  truth.  '  I  am  sure  he 
did.  Isn't  life  very  stupid  up  here  in  the  mountains,  when 
visiters  are  all  gone  away  ? ' 

'  I  don't  think  so.     We  never  depend  upon  visiters.' 

1  It  has  been  awfully  slow  at  Elmfield  since  Mr.  Knowl- 
ton  went  away.  We  sha'n't  stay  much  longer.  I  can't  live 
where  I  can't  dance.' 

'  What  is  that  ? '  said  a  voice  close  at  hand.  A  pecu- 
liarly clear,  silvery  voice. 

'  Cousin  Basil ! '  cried  Gertrude  starting.  '  What  did  you 
come  here  for?  I  brought  Miss  Starling  here  to  have  a 
good  talk  with  her.' 

'  Have  you  had  it  ? ' 

'  I  haven't  had  time.    I  was  just  beginning.' 

'  What  about  dancing  ? ' 

'  I  was  not  speaking  for  you  to  hear.  I  was  relieving 
myself  by  the  confession  that  I  can't  live, — happily,  I  mean, 
— without  it.' 

'  Choice  of  partners  immaterial  ? ' 

'  I  couldn't  bear  a  dull  life  ! ' 

'  Nor  I.' 

He  looked  as  if  he  certainly  did  not  know  what  dulness 
was,  Diana  thought.  She  listened,  much  amused. 

'  But  you  think  it  is  wrong  to  dance,  don't  you  ? '  Ger- 
trude went  on. 


CATECHISING.  1/5 

' "  Better  not  "  is  wrong,  to  a  Christian,'  he  replied. 

'  It  must  be  dreadful  to  be  a  Christian  ! ' 

'  Because — ? '  he  said  with  a  quiet  and  good-humoured 
glance  and  toae  of  inquiry. 

'  O  because  it  is  slavery.  So  many  things  you  cannot 
do,  and  dresses  you  cannot  wear.' 

'  By  what  rule  ? '  Mr.  Masters  asked. 

'  O,  people  think  you  are  dreadful  if  you  do  those 
things  ;  the  Church,  and  all  that.  So  I  think  it  is  a  great 
deal  better  to  keep  out  of  it,  and  make  no  pretensions.' 

'Better  to  keep  out  of  what  ?  let  me  understand,'  said 
the  minister.  'You  are  getting  my  ideas  in  a  very  in- 
volved state.' 

'  No,  I  am  not  I  I  say,  it  is  better  to  make  no  profes- 
sion.' 

'  Better  than  what  ?    What  is  the  alternative  ? ' 

'  O,  you  know.  Now  you  are  catechising  me.  It  is 
better  to  make  no  profession,  than  to  make  it  and  not 
live  up  to  it.' 

'  I  understand.  That  is  to  say ;  it  is  wicked  to  pay  your 
debts  with  counterfeit  notes,  so  it  is  better  not  to  pay  them 
at  all.' 

'  Nonsense,  Basil !     I  am  not  talking  of  paying  debts.' 

'  But  I  am.' 

'  What  have  debts  got  to  do  with  it  ? ' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  understood  you  to  declare  your 
disapprobation  of  false  money,  and  your  preference  for 
another  sort  of  dishonesty.' 

'  Dishonest,  Basil !  there  is  no  dishonesty.' 

'  By  what  name  do  you  call  it  ? ' 

He  was  speaking  gravely,  though  with  a  surface  pleas- 
antry ;  both  gravity  and  pleasantry  were  of  a  very  winning 
kind.  Diana  looked  on  and  listened,  much  interested,  as 


1 76  DIANA. 

well  as  amused  ;  Gertrude  puzzled  and  impatient,  though 
unable  to  resist  the  attraction.  She  hesitated  and  surveyed 
him. 

'  There  can't  be  dishonesty  unless  where  one  owes 
something.' 

'  Precisely — '  he  said,  glancing  at  her.  His  hands  were 
busy  at  the  time  with  a  supple  twig  he  had  cut  from  one 
of  the  trees,  which  he  was  trimming  of  its  leaves  and 
buds. 

'  What  do  I  owe  ? '  said  the  beauty,  throwing  her  tresses 
of  hair  off  from  her  shoulders. 

He  waited  a  bit,  the  one  lady  looking  defiant,  the  other 
curious  ;  and  then  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  gentle  simplicity 
that  was  at  the  same  time  uncompromising, 

'  "  The  Lord  hath  made  all  things  for  himself."  ' 

Gertrude's  foot  patted  the  turf ;  after  a  minute  she 
answered, 

'  Of  course  you  say  that  because  you  are  a  clergyman.' 

'  No,  I  don't.  I  am  stating  a  fact ;  which  I  thought  it 
likely  you  had  forgotten.' 

Gertrude  stood  up,  as  if  she  had  got  enough  of  the  con- 
versation. Diana  wished  for  another  word. 

'  It  is  a  fact,'  she  said ;  '  but  what  have  we  to  do  with 
it?' 

'  Only  to  let  the  Lord  have  his  own,'  said  the  minister 
with  a  full  look  at  her. 

'  How  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Masters  ?  I  don't  under- 
stand ? ' 

Gertrude  was  marching  over  the  grass,  leading  to  the 
house.  The  other  two  followed. 

*  When  you  have  contrived  and  made  a  thing,  you  reck- 
on it  is  your  own,  don't  you  ?  and  when  you  have  bought 
something,  you  think  it  is  at  your  disposal  ? ' 


CATECHISING.  1 77 

'Certainly;  but — ' 

'  "  You  were  bought  with  a  price."  ' 

'  Of  course,  God  has  a  right  to  dispose  of  us,'  Diana 
assented  in  an  'of  course  '  way. 

'  Dots  he  ? '  said  the  minister.  Then  seeing  her  puzzled 
expression,  he  went  on — '  He  cannot  dispose  of  you  as  he 
wishes,  without  your  consent/ 

Diana  stopped  short,  midway  in  the  meadow.  '  I  do 
not  in  the  least  understand,  Mr.  Masters,'  she  said.  '  How 
does  He  wish  to  dispose  of  me  ? ' 

'  When  you  are  his  own,  he  will  let  you  know,'  said  the 
minister,  beginning  to  stroll  onward  again  ;  and  no  more 
words  passed  till  they  were  nearing  the  house,  when  he 
said  suddenly,  '  Whom  do  you  think  you  belong  to  now?' 

Diana's  thought  made  an  instant  leap  at  the  words, 
a  leap  over  hundreds  of  miles  of  intervening  space,  and 
alighted  beside  a  fine  officer-like  figure  in  a  dark  blue  mili- 
tary coat  with  straps  on  the  shoulders.  That  was  where 
she  "  belonged,"  she  thought ;  and  a  soft  rose  colour  man- 
tled on  her  cheek  and  deepened,  half  with  happiness,  halt 
with  pride.  The  question  that  had  provoked  it  was  for- 
gotten ;  and  the  neighbourhood  of  the  house  was  now  too 
near  to  allow  of  the  inquiry  being  pressed  or  repeated. 
The  minister  indeed  was  aware  that  for  some  time  he 
and  his  companion-had  been  facing  a  battery  ;  but  Diana 
was  in  happy  unconsciousness  ;  it  was  the  thought  of 
nothing  present  or  near  which  made  her  eyes  droop  and 
her  cheeks  take  on  such  a  bloom  of  loveliness. 

Among  the  eyes  that  beheld,  Mrs.  Starling's  had  not 
been  the  least  keen,  though  she  watched  without  seeming 
to  watch.  She  saw  how  the  minister  and  her  daughter 
came  slowly  over  the  meadow,  engaged  with  each  other's 
conversation,  while  Miss  Masters  tripped  on  before  them. 

12 


1^8  DIANA. 

She  noticed  the  pause  in  their  walk,  Diana's  slow,  thought- 
ful step ;  and  then  as  they  came  near,  her  flush  and  her 
downcast  eye. 

'  The  minister's  talk  's  very  interestin','  whispered  Mrs. 
Carpenter  in  her  ear. 

'Not  to  me,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  wilfully  misunderstand- 
ing. '  Some  folks  thinks  so,  I  know.  I  can't  somehow 
never  get  along  with  him.' 

'  And  Diana  sha'n't,'  was  her  inward  resolve  ;  '  but  she 
can't  be  thinkin'  of  the  other  feller.' 

As  if  to  try  the  question,  at  the  moment,  Mrs.  Reverdy 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  just  as  the  minister  and 
Diana  got  to  the  foot  of  them.  She  was  in  high  glee,  for 
her  party  was  going  off  nicely,  and  the  tables  were  just 
preparing  for  supper. 

'  We  want  nothing  now  but  Evan,'  she  said  with  her 
unfailing  laugh.  '  Miss  Starling,  don't  you  think  he  might 
have  come  for  this  afternoon,  just  to  see  so  many  friends  ? ' 

Diana  never  knew  where  she  got  the  .coolness  to  answer, 
'  How  long  a  journey  is  it,  Mrs.  Reverdy  ? ' 

'  O  I  don't  know !  How  far  is  it,  Mr.  Masters  ?  a 
thousand  miles? — or  two  thousand?  I  declare  I  have  no 
idea.  But  love  laughs  at  distances,  they  say.' 

'  Is  Cupid  a  contractor  on  this  road  ? '  inquired  the 
minister  gravely. 

'  A  contractor  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reverdy  laughing, — 
'  Oh,  dear,  what  a  funny  idea  !  I  never  thought  of  putting 
it  so.  But  I  didn't  know  but  Miss  Starling  could  tell  us.' 

'  Do  you  know  anything  about  it,  Miss  Diana  ? '  asked 
the  minister. 

'  About  what  ? ' 

'Why  Lieutenant  Knowlton  is  not  here  this  after- 
noon ? ' 


CATECHISING.  1/9 

Diana  knew  that  several  pair?  of  eyes  were  upon  her. 
It  was  a  dangerous  minute.  But  she  had  failed  to  discern 
in  Mrs.  Reverdy  or  in  Gertrude  any  symptom  of  more  than 
curiosity  ;  and  curiosity  she  felt  she  could  meet  and  baffle. 
It  was  impertinent,  and  it  was  unkind.  So,  though  her  mind 
was  at  a  point  which  made  it  close  steering,  she  managed 
to  sheer  off  from  embarrassment  and  look  amused.  She 
laughed  in  the  eyes  that  were  watching  her,  and  answered 
carelessly  enough  to  Mr.  Masters'  question  ;  that  she 
'  dared  say  Mr.  Knowlton  would  have  come  if  he  could.' 
Mrs.  Starling  put  up  her  work  with  a  sigh  of  relief ;  and 
the  rest  of  the  persons  concerned  felt  free  to  dismiss 
the  subject  from  their  minds  and  pay  attention  to  the 
supper. 

It  was  a  great  success,  Mrs.  Reverdy's  sewing  party. 
The  excellent  entertainment  provided  was  heartily  enjoyed, 
all  the  more  for  the  little  stimulus  of  curiosity  which  hung 
about  every  article  and  each  detail  of  the  tea-table.  Old 
Mr.  Bowcloin  delighted  himself  in  hospitable  attentions  to 
his  old  neighbours,  and  was  full  of  genial  and  gratified 
talk  with  them.  The  stiffness  of  the  afternoon  departed 
before  the  tea  and  coffee  ;  and  when  at  last  the  assembly 
broke  up  and  a  little  file  of  country  wagons  drove  away, 
one  after  another,  from  the  door,  it  was  with  highly  grati- 
fied loads  of  people. 

Diana  may  be  quoted  as  a  single  exception.  In  the 
tremor  of  her  spirits  which  followed  the  bit  of  social  navi- 
gation noticed  above,  she  had  hardly  known  how  anything 
tasted  at  the  supper  ;  and  the  talk  she  had  heard  without 
hearing.  There  was  nothing  but  relief  in  getting  away. 

The  drive  home  was  as  silent  between  her  and  her 
mother  as  the  drive  out  had  been.  Mrs.  Starling  was  full 
of  her  own  cogitations.  Diana's  thoughts  were  not  like 


ISO  DIANA. 

that, — hard  twisted  and  hard  knotted  lines  of  argument, 
growing  harder  and  more  twisted  towards  their  end  ;  but 
wide  flowing  and  soft  changing  visions,  flowing  sweet  and 
free  as  the  clouds  borne  on  the  air  currents  of  heaven  ; 
catching  such  colours,  and  drifting  as  insensibly  from  one 
form  into  another.  The  evening  kept  up  the  dreamy  char- 
acter of  the  afternoon,  the  haze  growing  duskier  as  the  light 
waned  ;  till  the  tender  gleam  of  a  full  moon  began  to  sup- 
ply here  and  there  the  glory  of  the  lost  sunlight.  It  was 
a  colder  gleam,  though  ;  and  so  far,  more  practical  than 
that  flush  of  living  promise  which  a  little  while  ago  had 
filled  the  sky  and  the  world.  Diana's  thoughts  centred  on 
Evan's  letter.  Where  was  it  ?  When  should  she  get  it  ? 
Josiah,  she  knew,  had  been  to  the  post-office  that  morn- 
ing, and  brought  home  nothing  !  She  wished  she  could  go 
to  the  post  office  herself  ;  she  sometimes  had  done  so  ;  but 
she  would  not  like  to  take  Evan's  letter  either,  from  the 
knowing  hands  of  the  postmaster.  She  might  not  be  able 
to  command  her  looks  perfectly. 

'  They  don't  know  how  to  make  soda  biscuit,  down  yon- 
der,' Mrs.  Starling  broke  out  abruptly,  just  as  their  drive 
was  near  ended. 

'  Don't  they  ? '  said  Diana  absently. 

'  All  yellow  ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling  disdainfully.  '  No- 
body would  ever  know  there  was  any  saleratus  in  my  bis- 
cuit— or  in  yours  either.' 

'  Except  from  the  lightness,  mother.' 

'The  lightness  wouldn't  tell  what  made  'em  light,'  said 
Mrs.  Starling  logically.  '  They  had  saleratus  in  their  pickles 
too.' 

'  How  could  you  tell  ?  ' 

*  Tell  ?     As  if  I  couldn't  tell !     Tell  by  the  colour.' 

'  Ours  are  green  too.' 


CATECHISING.  l8l 

'  Not  green  like  that.  I  would  despise  to  make  my 
pickles  green  that  way.  I'd  as  soon  paint  'em.' 

'  It  was  very  handsome,  mother,  the  supper  altogether.' 

'  Hm  !  It  was  a  little  too  handsome,'  said  Mrs.  Star- 
ling, '  and  that  was  what  they  liked  about  it.  I'd  like  to 
know  what  is  the  use  o'  having  great  clumsy  forks  of  make- 
believe  silver ' 

'  O  they  were  real,  mother.' 

'  Well,  the  more  fools  if  they  were.  I'd  like  to  know 
what  is  the  use  of  having  great  clumsy  forks  of  silver,  real 
or  make-believe,  when  you  can  have  nice,  sharp,  handy 
steel  ones,  and  for  half  or  a  quarter  the  price  ? ' 

Diana  liked  the  silver  forks  and  was  silent. 

'  I  could  hardly  eat  my  pickles  with  'em.  I  couldn't,  if 
they  had  been  mine;  but  Genevieve's  cucumbers  were 
spongy.' 

To  Diana's  relief,  their  own  door  was  gained  at  this 
moment.  She  did  not  know  what  her  mother's  discourse 
might  end  in,  and  was  glad  to  have  it  stopped.  Yet  the 
drive  had  been  pretty  ! 

The  men  had  had  their  supper,  which  had  been  left 
ready  for  them  ;  and  Josiah's  care  had  kept  up  a  blazing  fire 
in  the  lean-to  kitchen.  Diana  went  up  stairs  to  change  her 
dress,  for  she  had  the  dishes  now  to  wash  up  ;  and  Mrs.  Star- 
ling stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  pondering.  She  had  been 
pondering  all  the  time  of  the  drive  home,  as  well  as  much  of 
the  time  spent  at  Elmfield ;  she  believed  she  had  come  to  a 
conclusion  ;  and  yet  she  delayed  her  purpose.  It  was  clear, 
she  said  to  herself,  that  Diana  did  not  care  for  Lieut.  Knowl- 
ton  ;  at  least,  not  much  ;  her  fancy  might  have  been  stirred. 
But  what  is  a  girl's  fancy  ?  Nothing  worth  considering. 
Letters,  if  allowed,  might  nourish  the  fancy  up  into  some- 
thing else.  She  would  destroy  this  first  one.  She  had 


1 82  DIANA. 

determined  on  that.  Yet  she  lingered.  Conscience  spoke 
uneasily.  What  if  she  were  misled  by  appearances,  and 
Diana  had  more  than  a  fancy  for  this  young  fellow  ?  Then 
she  would  crush  it!  Nobody  would  be  the  wiser,  and  no- 
body would  die  of  grief  ;  those  things  were  done  in  stories 
only.  Mrs.  Starling  hesitated  nevertheless,  with  her  hand 
on  the  letter,  till  the  sound  of  Diana's  step  in  the  house 
decided  her  action.  She  was  afraid  to  wait ;  some  accident 
might  overthrow  all  her  arrangements  ;  and  with  a  hasty 
movement  she  drew  the  packet  from  her  bosom  and  tucked 
it  under  the  fofestick,  where  a  bed  of  glowing  nut-wood 
coals  lay  ready.  Quick  the  fire  caught  the  light  tindery 
edges,  made  a  little  jet  of  excitement  about  the  large 
wax  seal,  fought  its  way  through  the  thick  folds  of  paper, 
and  in  a  moment  had  left  only  a  mock  sheet  of  cinder,  with 
mock  marks  of  writing  still  traceable  vividly  upon  it.  A 
letter  still,  manifestly,  sharp  edged  and  square,  it  glowed  at 
Mrs.  Starling  from  its  bed  of  coals,  with  the  curious  im- 
passiveness  of  material  things  ;  as  if  the  happiness  of  two 
lives  had  not  shrivelled  within  it.  Mrs.  Starling  stood  look- 
ing. What  had  been  written  upon  that  fiery  scroll  ?  It  was 
vain  to  ask  now  ;  and  hearing  Diana  coming  down  stairs, 
she  took  the  tongs  and  punched  the  square  cinder  that 
kept  its  form  too  well.  Little  bits  of  paper,  grey  cinder 
with  red  edges,  fluttered  in  the  draught  and  flew  up  in  the 
smoke. 

'  What  are  you  burning  there,  mother  ? '  said  Diana. 

And  Mrs.  Starling  answered  a  guilty,  "  Nothing,"  and 
walked  away.  Diana  looked  at  the  little  fluttering  cinders, 
and  an  uneasy  sensation  came  over  her,  that  yet  took  no 
form  of  suspicion  ;  and  passed,  for  the  thing  was  impos- 
sible. So  near  she  came  to  it. 

Why  had  Mrs.  Starling  not  at  least  read  the  letter  be- 


CATECHISING.  183 

fore  destroying  it  ?  The  answer  lies  in  some  of  the 
strange,  hidden  involutions  of  feeling  and  consciousness, 
which  are  hard  to  trace  out  even  by  the  person  who  knows 
them  best.  After  the  thing  was  done,  she  wished  she  had 
read  it.  It  may  be  she  feared  to  find  what  would  stay  her 
hand,  or  make  her  action  difficult.  It  may  be  that  certain 
stirrings  of  conscience  warned  her  that  delay  might  defeat 
her  whole  purpose.  She  was  an  obstinate  woman,  by  na- 
ture ;  obstinate  to  the  point  of  wilful  blindness  when  ne- 
cessary ;  and  to  do  her  justice,  she  was  perfectly  incapable 
of  estimating  the  gain  or  the  loss  of  such  an  affection  as 
Diana's,  or  of  sympathizing  with  the.  suffering  such  a  na- 
ture may  know.  It  was  not  in  her  ;  she  had  no  key  to  it ; 
grant  the  utmost  mischief  that  she  supposed  it  even  possi- 
ble she  might  be  doing,  and  it  was  as  a  summer  gale  to 
the  cyclone  of  the  Indian  seas. 

So  her  conscience  troubled  her  little,  and  that  little 
was  soon  silenced.  Perhaps  not  quite  forgotten  ;  for  it  had 
the  effect,  not  to  make  her  more  than  usual  tender  of  her 
daughter  and  indulgent  towards  her,  as  one  would  expect,but 
stern,  carping  and  exacting  beyond  all  her  wont.  She  drove 
household  matters  with  a  tighter  rein  than  ever,  and  gave 
Diana  as  little  time  for  private  thought  or  musing,  as  the 
constant  and  engrossing  occupation  of  her  hands  could  leave 
free.  But  however,  thoughts  are  not  chained  to  fingers. 
Alas  !  what  troubled  calculations  Diana  worked  into  her 
butter,  those  weeks  ;  and  how  many  heavy  possibilities  she 
shook  down  from  her  fingers  along  with  the  drops  of  water 
she  scattered  upon  the  clothes  for  the  ironing.  Her  very 
nights  at  last  became  filled  with  the  anxious  cogitations 
that  never  ceased  all  the  day  ;  and  Diana  awoke  morning 
after  morning  unrefreshed  and  weary  from  her  burdened 
sleep,  and  from  dreams  that  reproduced  in  fantastic  com- 


1 84  DIANA. 

binations  the  perplexities  of  her  waking  life.  Her  face 
began  to  grow  shadowed  and  anxious,  and  her  tongue  was 
still.  Mrs.  Starling  had  generally  done  most  of  the  talking ; 
she  did.it  all  now. 

Days  passed  on,  and  weeks.  Mrs.  Starling  did  not  find 
out  that  anything  was  the  matter  with  Diana  ;  partly  be- 
cause she  was  determined  that  nothing  should  be  the  mat- 
ter ;  and  partly  because  young  Flandin  came  about  the 
house  a  good  deal,  and  Mrs.  Starling  thought  Diana  to  be 
vexed,  or  perhaps  in  a  state  of  vexed  indecision  about  him. 
And  in  addition,  she  was  a  little  anxious  herself,  lest  an- 
other letter  should  come  and  somehow  reach  the  hands  it 
was  meant  for.  Having  gone  so  far  already,  Mrs.  Starling 
did  not  mean  to  spoil  or  lose  her  work  for  want  of  a  few 
finishing  touches.  She  watched  the  post-office  as  never  in 
her  life,  for  any  cause,  she  had  watched  it  before. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IS   IT   WELL   WITH   THEE  ? 

DIANA  would  have  written  to  Mr.  Knowlton  to  get  her 
mystery  solved  ;  she  was  far  too  simple  and  true  to  stand 
upon  needless  punctilio  ;  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  ad- 
dress to  him  a  letter.  Evan  himself  had  not  known,  when 
he  parted  from  her  ;  the  information  came  in  that  epistle  that 
never  reached  her  hands,  that  first  letter.  Names  and  di- 
rections had  all  perished  in  the  flames,  and  for  want  of  them 
Diana  could  do  nothing.  Meanwhile,  what  would  Evan 
think  ?  He  would  expect  an  answer,  and  a  quick  answer, 
to  his  letter  ;  he  was  looking  for  it  now,  no  doubt ;  won- 
dering why  it  did  not  come,  and  disappointed,  and  fearing 
something  wrong.  That  trouble,  of  fearing  something  wrong, 
Diana  was  spared  ;  for  she  knew  the  family  at  Elmfield 
had  heard,  and  all  was  well ;  but  sometimes  her  other 
troublesome  thoughts  made  her  powerless  hands  come  to- 
gether with  a  clasp  of  wild  pain.  How  long  must  she  wait 
now  ?  how  long  would  Evan  wait,  before  in  desperation  he 
wrote  again  ?  And  where  was  her  letter  ?  for  it  had  been 
written  and  sent ;  that  she  knew ;  was  it  lost  ?  was  it 
stolen  ?  Had  somebody's  curiosity  prevailed  so  far,  and 
was  her  precious  secret  town  property  by  this  time  ?  Every 
day  became  harder  to  bear ;  every  week  made  the  sus- 
pense more  intolerable.  Mrs.  Starling  was  far  out  in  one 
of  her  suppositions.  Will  Flandin  came  a  good  deal  about 

185 


1 86  DIANA. 

the  house,  it  is  true  ;  but  Diana  hardly  knew  he  was  there. 
If  she  thought  about  it  at  all,  she  was  half  glad,  because 
his  presence  might  serve  to  mask  her  silence  and  abstrac- 
tion. She  was  conscious  of  both,  and  the  effort  to  cover 
the  one  and  hide  the  other  was  very  painful  sometimes. 

October  glories  were  passed  away,  and  November 
days  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  colder  and  more  dreary.  It 
seemed  now  and  then  to  Diana  that  summer  had  gone  to 
a  distance  from  which  it  would  never  revisit  her.  And 
after  those  days  of  constant  communication  with  Evan,  the 
blank  cessation  of  it,  the  ignorance  of  all  that  had  befallen 
or  was  befalling  him,  the  want  of  a  word  of  remembrance 
or  affection,  grew  almost  to  a  blank  of  despair. 

It  was  late  in  the  month. 

'  What  wagon's  that  stopping  ? '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Starling 
one  afternoon.  Mother  and  daughter  were  in  the  lean-to. 
Diana  looked  out,  and  saw  with  a  pang  of  various  feelings 
what  wagon  it  was. 

'  Ain't  that  the  Elmfield  folks  ? ' 

'I  think  so.' 

'  I  know  so.  I  thought  Mrs.  Reverdy  and  the  rest  had 
run  away  from  the  cold.' 

*  Didn't  you  know  Miss  Masters  had  been  sick  ? ' 

'  How  should  I  know  it  ? 

1 1  heard  so.    I  didn't  know  but  you  had  heard  it.' 

'  I  can't  hear  things  without  somebody  tells  me.  Go 
along  up  stairs,  Diana  and  put  on  something.' 

Diana  obeyed,  but  she  was  very  quick  about  it ;  she  was 
nervously  afraid  lest  while  she  was  absent  some  word  should 
be  said  that  she  would  not  have  lost  for  the  whole  world. 
What  had  they  come  for,  these  people  ?  Was  the  secret  out 
perhaps,  and  had  they  come  to  bring  her  a  letter  ?  Or  to 
say  why  Evan  had  not  written?  Could  he  have  been 


IS   IT   WELL   WITH   THEE?  l8/ 

sick  ?  A  feverish  whirlwind  of  thoughts  rushed  through 
Diana's  head  while  she  was  fastening  her  dress ;  and  she 
went  down  and  came  into  the  parlour  with  two  beautiful 
spots  of  rose-colour  upon  her  cheeks.  They  were  fever-spots. 
Diana  had  been  pale  of  late  ;  but  she  looked  gloriously  hand- 
some as  she  entered  the  room.  Bad  for  her.  A  common- 
looking  woman  might  have  heard  news  from  Evan  ;  the 
instant  resolve  in  the  hearts  of  the  two  ladies  who  had 
come  to  visit  her,  was,  that  this  girl  should  hear  none. 

They  were  however  exceedingly  gracious  and  agreeable. 
Mrs.  Reverdy  entered  with  flattering  interest  into  all  the 
matters  of  household  and  farm  detail  respecting  which 
Mrs.  Starling  chose  to  be  communicative  ;  responded  with 
details  of  her  own.  How  it  was  impossible  to  get  good 
butter  made,  unless  you  made  it  yourself.  How  servants 
were  unsatisfactory,  even  in  Pleasant  Valley  ;  and  how  de- 
lightful it  was  to  be  able  to  do  without  them,  as  Mrs. 
Starling  did  and  Diana. 

'  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  with 
her  unfailing  laugh ;  a  little,  well-bred,  low  murmur  of  a 
laugh.  '  It  must  be  so  delightful  to  have  your  biscuits  al- 
ways light  and  never  tasting  of  soda  ;  and  your  butter 
always  as  if  it  was  made  of  cowslips  ;  and  your  eggs  always 
fresh.  We  never  have  fresh  eggs,'  continued  Mrs.  Reverdy 
shaking  her  head  solemnly  ; — '  never.  I  never  dare  to  have 
them  boiled.' 

'  What  becomes  of  them  ? '  said  a  new  voice ;  and  Mr. 
Masters  entered  the  field ;  in  other  words,  the  room. 
Diana's  heart  contracted  with  a  pang;  was  this  another 
hindrance  in  the  way  of  her  hearing  what  she  wanted  ? 
But  the  rest  of  the  ladies  welcomed  him. 

'  Charming  ! '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy ;  '  now  you  will  go 
home  with  us.' 


1 88  DIANA. 

'  I  don't  see  just  on  what  you  found  your  conclu- 
sion.' 

4O  you  will  have  made  your  visit  to  Mrs.  Starling,  you 
know;  and  then  you  will  have  nothing  else  to  do.' 

4  There  spoke  a  woman  of  business  ! '  said  the  min- 
ister. 

4  Yes,  why  not  ? '  said  the  lady.  '  I  was  just  telling  Mrs. 
Starling  how  I  should  delight  to  do  as  she  does,  without 
servants,  and  how  pleasant  I  should  find  it ;  only,  you  know, 
I  shouldn't  know  how  to  do  anything  if  I  tried.'  Mrs. 
Reverdy  seemed  to  find  the  idea  very  entertaining. 

4  You  wouldn't  like  to  get  tip  in  the  morning  to  make 
your  biscuits,'  said  Gertrude. 

'  O  yes  I  would  !  I  needn't  have  breakfast  very  early, 
you  know.' 

*  The  good  butter  wouldn't  be  on  the  table  if  you  didn't,' 
said  Mrs.  Starling. 

4  Wouldn't  it  ?  why  ?  Does  it  matter  when  butter  is 
made,  if  it  is  only  made  right  ? ' 

4  No  ;  but  the  trouble  is,  it  cannot  be  made  right  after 
the  sun  is  an  hour  or  two  high.' 

;  An  hour  or  two ! '  Mrs.  Reverdy  uttered  a  little 
scream. 

4  Not  at  this  time  of  year,  mother,'  interposed  Diana. 

4  Do  you  get  up  at  these  fearful  times  ? '  inquired  Miss 
Masters  languidly,  turning  her  eyes  full  upon  the  latter 
speaker. 

Diana  scarce  answered.  Would  all  the  minutes  of 
their  visit  pass  in  these  platitudes  ?  could  nothing  else  be 
talked  of?  The  next  instant  she  blessed  Mr.  Masters. 

4  Have  you  heard  from  the  soldier  lately  ? '  he  asked. 

'  O  yes  !  we  hear  frequently,'  Mrs.  Reverdv  said. 

4  He  likes  his  post  ? ' 


IS   IT   WELL   WITH   THEE?  189 

'  I  really  don't  know,'  said  her  sister  laughing ;  '  a 
soldier  can't  choose,  you  know  ;  I  fancy  they,  have  some 
rough  times  out  there ;  but  they  manage  to  get  a  good 
deal  of  fun  too.  Evan's  last  letter  told  of  buffalo  hunting, 
and  said  they  had  some  very  good  society  too.  You 
wouldn't  expect  it,  on  the  outskirts  of  everything  ;  but  the 
officers'  families  are  very  pleasant.  There  are  young  ladies, 
sometimes ;  and  every  one  is  made  a  great  deal  of.' 

'Where  is  Mr.  Knowlton  ? '  Diana  asked.  She  had 
been  working  up  her  courage  to  dare  the  question ;  it  was 
hazardous  ;  she  was  afraid  to  trust  her  voice  ;  but  the 
daring  of  desperation  was  on  her,  and  the  words  came  out 
with  sufficiently  cool  utterance.  A  keen  observer  might 
note  a  change  in  Mrs.  Reverdy's  look  and  tone. 

'  O,  he's  in  one  of  those  dreadful  posts  out  on  the 
frontier ;  too  near  the  Indians  ;  but  I  suppose  if  there 
weren't  Indians  there  wouldn't  be  forts,  and  they  wouldn't 
want  officers  or  soldiers  to  be  in  them,'  she  added,  looking 
at  Mr.  Masters  ;  as  if  she  had  found  a  happy  final  cause 
for  the  existence  of  the  aborigines  of  the  country. 

'  What  is  the  name  of  the  place  ? '  Diana  asked. 

'  I  declare,  I've  forgotten.  Fort I  can't  think  of 

any  name  but  Vancouver,  and  it  isn't  that.  Gertrude, 
what  is  the  name  of  that  place  ?  Do  you  know,  I  can't  tell 
whether  it  is  in  Arizona  or  Wisconsin  ! '  And  Mrs.  Reverdy 
laughed  at  her  geographical  innocence. 

Gertrude  '  didn't  remember.' 

'  He  is  not  so  far  off  as  Vancouver,  I  think,'  said  Mr. 
Masters. 

'  No, — O  no,  not  so  far  as  that ;  but  he  might  just  as 
well.  When  you  get  to  a  certain  distance,  it  don't  signify 
whether  it  is  more  or  less ;  you  can't  get  at  people,  and 
they  can't  get  at  you.  You  have  seemed  to  be  at  that  dis- 


IQO  DIANA. 

tance  lately,  Basil.  What  a  dreadful  name  !  How  came  you 
to  be  called  such  a  name  ? ' 

'  Be  thankful  it  is  no  worse,'  said  the  minister  gravely. 
*  I  might  have  been  called  Lactantius.' 

'  Lactantius !  Impossible.  Was  there  ever  a  man 
named  Lactantius  ? ' 

'  Certainly.' 

'  'Tain't  any  worse  than  Ichabod,'  remarked  Mrs.  Star- 
ling. 

'  Nothing  can  be  worse  than  Ichabod,'  said  Mr.  Mas- 
ters in  the  same  dry  way.  '  It  means,  "  The  glory  is  de- 
parted." ' 

'  The  Ichabods  I  knew,  never  had  any  glory  to  begin 
with,'  said  Mrs.  Starling. 

But  the  minister  laughed  at  this,  and  so  gayly  that  it 
was  infectious.  Mrs.  Starling  joined  in.  without  well  know- 
ing why ;  the  lady  visiters  seemed  to  be  very  much  amused. 
Diana  tried  to  laugh,  with  lips  that  felt  rigid  as  steel.  The 
minister's  eye  came  to  hers,  too,  she  knew,  to  see  how  the  fun 
went  with  her.  And  then  the  ladies  rose,  took  a  very 
flattering  leave  and  departed,  carrying  Mr.  Masters  off 
with  them. 

'  I  am  coming  to  look  at  those  books  of  yours  soon,' 
he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with  Diana.  '  May  I  ? ' 

Diana  made  her  answer  as  civil  as  she  could,  with  those 
stiff  lips ;  how  she  bade  good-by  to  the  others  she  never 
knew.  As  her  mother  attended  them  to  the  garden  gate,  she 
went  up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  feeling  now,  it  was  the  first 
time,  that  the  pain  could  not  be  borne.  Seeing  these  people  had 
brought  Evan  so  near  ;  and  hearing  them  talk  had  put  him 
at  such  an  impossible  distance.  Diana  pressed  both  hands 
on  her  heart,  and  stood  looking  out  of  her  window  at  the 
departing  carriage.  What  could  she  do  ?  Nothing,  that  she 


IS    IT    WELL    WITH    THEE  ?  IQI 

could  think  of  ;  and  to  do  nothing  was  the  intolerable  part 
of  it.  Any,  the  most  tedious  and  lingering  action,  yes, 
even  the  least  hopeful ;  anything  that  would  have  been 
action,  would  have  made  the  pain  supportable  ;  she  could 
have  drawn  breath  then,  enough  for  life's  purposes  ;  now 
she  was  stifling.  There  was  some  mystery  ;  there  was 
something  wrong  ;  some  mistake,  or  misapprehension,  or 
malpractice  ;  something,  which  if  she  could  put  her  hand 
on,  all  would  be  right.  And  it  was  hidden  from  her  ;  dark  ; 
it  might  be  near  or  far,  she  could  not  touch  it,  for  she  could 
not  find  it.  There  was  even  no  place  for  suspicion  to  take 
hold,  unless  the  curiosity  of  the  post  office  or  of  some  pry- 
ing neighbour ;  she  did  not  suspect  Evan  ;  and  yet  there 
was  a  great  throb  at  her  heart  with  the  thought  that  in 
Evan's  place  she  would  never  have  let  things  rest.  Nothing 
should  have  kept  the  silence  so  long  unbroken  ;  if  the  first 
letter  got  no  answer,  she  would  have  written  another.  So 
would  Diana  have  done  now,  without  being  in  Evan's  place, 
if  only  she  had  had  his  address.  And  that  cruel  woman  to 
day  !  did  she  know,  or  did  she  guess,  anything  ?  or  was  it 
another  of  the  untoward  circumstances  attending  the  whole 
matter  ? 

It  came  to  her  now,  a  thought  of  regret  that  she  had 
not  ventured  the  disagreeableness  and  told  her  mother 
long  ago  of  her  interest  in  Evan.  Mrs.  Starling  could  take 
measures  that  her  daughter  could  not  take.  If  she  pleased, 
that  is ;  and  the  doubt  also  recurred,  whether  she  would 
please.  It  was  by  no  means  certain ;  and  at  any  rate, 
now,  in  her  mortification  and  pain,  Diana  could  not  invite 
her  mother  into  her  counsels.  She  felt  that,  as  from  her 
window  she  watched  the  receding  wagon  and  saw  Mrs.  Star- 
ling turn  from  the  gate  and  walk  in.  Uncompromising, 
unsympathizing,  even  her  gait  and  the  set  of  her  head  and 


IQ2  DIANA. 

shoulders  proclaimed  her  to  be.  Diana  was  alone  with 
her  trouble. 

An  hour  afterwards  she  came  down  as  usual,  strained 
the  milk,  skimmed  her  cream,  went  through  the  whole 
little  routine  of  the  household  evening ;  her  hands  were 
steady,  her  eye  was  true,  her  memory  lost  nothing.  But 
she  did  not  speak  one  word,  unless,  which  was  seldom,  a 
word  was  spoken  to  her.  So  went  on  the  next  day,  and  the 
next.  November's  days  were  trailing  along,  December's 
would  follow  ;  there  was  no  change  from  one  to  another  ; 
no  variety.  Less  than  ever  before ;  for  with  morbid  sen- 
sitiveness Diana  shrank  from  visiters  and  visiting.  Every 
contact  gave  her  pain. 

Meanwhile,  where  was  Evan's  second  letter  ?  On  its 
way,  and  in  the  post  office. 

It  was  late  in  November  ;  Diana  was  sitting  at  the  door 
of  the  lean-to,  where  she  had  been  sitting  on  that  June  day 
when  our  story  began.  She  was  alone  this  time  ;  and  her 
look  and  attitude  were  sadly  at  variance  with  that  former 
time.  The  November  day  was  not  without  a  charm  of  its 
own  which  might  even  challenge  comparison  with  the  June 
glory  ;  for  it  was  Indian  summer  time,  and  the  wonder  of 
soft  spiritual  beauty  which  had  settled  down  upon  the 
landscape,  brown  and  bare  though  that  was,  left  no  room 
to  regret  the  full  verdure  and  radiant  sunlight  of  high  sum- 
mer. The  indescribable  loveliness  of  the  haze  and  hush, 
the  winning  tender  colouring  that  was  through  the  air  and 
wrapped  round  everything,  softening,  mellowing,  harmon- 
izing somehow  even  the  most  unsightly ;  hiding  where  it 
could  not  beautify,  and  beautifying  where  it  could  not  hide, 
like  Christian  charity ;  gave  a  most  exquisite  lesson  to  the 
world,  of  how  much  more  mighty  is  spirit  than  matter. 
Diana  did  not  see  it,  as  she  had  seen  the  June  day ;  her 


IS    IT   WELL  WITH   THEE  ?  193 

arms  were  folded,  lying  one  upon  another  in  idle  fashion ; 
her  face  was  grave  and  fixed,  the  eyes  aimless  and  vision- 
less,  looking  at  nothing  and  seeing  nothing  ;  cheeks  pale, 
and  the  mouth  parted  with  pain  and  questioning,  its  de- 
licious childlike  curves  just  now  all  gone.  So  sitting,  and 
so  abstracted  in  her  own  thoughts,  she  never  knew  that 
anybody  was  near ;  till  the  little  gate  opened,  and  then 
with  a  start  she  saw  Mr.  Masters  coming  up  the  walk. 
Diana  rose  and  stood  in  the  doorway  ;  all  traces  of  country 
girl  manners,  if  she  had  ever  had  any,  had  disappeared 
before  the  dignity  of  a  great  and  engrossing  trouble. 

'  Good  evening  ! '  she  said  quietly,  as  they  shook  hands. 
'  Mother's  gone  out.' 

'  Gone  out,  is  she  ? '  said  Mr.  Masters,  but  not  with  a 
tone  of  particular  disappointment. 

'  Yes.  I  believe  she  has  gone  to  the  Corner — to  the 
post  office.' 

'  The  Corner  is  a  good  way  off.     And  how  do  you  do  ? ' 

Diana  thought  he  looked  at  her  a  little  meaningly.  She 
answered  in  the  customary  form,  that  she  was  well. 

'  That  -says  a  great  deal — or  nothing  at  all,'  the  minis- 
ter remarked. 

(  What  ?  '  said  Diana,  not  comprehending  him. 

'  That  form  of  words, — "  I  am  well."  ' 

'It  is  very  apt  to  mean  nothing  at  all,'  said  Diana,  'for 
people  say  it  without  thinking.' 

'  As  you  did  just  now  ? ' 

'  Perhaps. — But  I  am  well.' 

'Altogether  ?'  said  the  minister.  '  Soul  and  mind  and 
body  ? ' 

The  word  read  dry  enough ;  his  manner,  his  tone,  half 
gentle,  half  bold,  with  a  curious  inoffensive  kind  of  bold- 
ness, took  from  them  their  dryness  and  gave  them  a  cer- 
13 


194  DIANA. 

tain  sweet  acceptableness  that  most  persons  knew  who 
knew  Mr.  Masters.  Diana  never  dreamed  that  he  was  in- 
trusive, even  though  she  recognized  the  fact  that  he  was 
about  his  work.  Nevertheless  she  waived  the  question. 

'  Can  anybody  say  that  he  is  well  so  ? '  she  asked. 

'I  hope  he  can.  Do  you  know  the  old  lady  who  is 
called  Mother  Bartlett  ? ' 

1  O  yes.' 

'  Do  you  think  she  would  hesitate  about  answering 
that  question  ?  Or  be  mistaken  in  the  answer  ? ' 

'  But  what  do  you  mean  by  it  exactly  ?  '  said  Diana. 

'  Don't  you  know  ? ' 

'I  suppose  I  do.  I  know  what  it  means  to  be  well  in 
body.  I  have  been  well  all  my  life.' 

'  How  would  you  characterize  that  happy  condition  ?  ' 

'  Why,'  said  Diana,  unused  to  definitions  of  abstractions, 
but  following  Mr.  Masters'  lead  as  people  always  did,  gen- 
tle or  simple, — '  I  mean,  or  it  means,  sound,  and  comfort- 
able, and  fit  for  what  one  has  to  do.' 

'  Excellent,'  said  the  minister.  '  I  see  you  understand 
the  subject.  Cannot  those  things  be  true  of  soul  and  mind, 
as  well  as  of  body  ? ' 

*  What  is  the  difference  between  soul  and  mind  ?'  said 
Diana. 

'  A  clear  departure  !  '  said  the  minister  laughing  ;  then 
gravely,  '  Do  you  read  philosophy  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know — '  said  Diana.  '  I  read,  or  I  used  to 
read,  a  good  many  sorts  of  books.  I  haven't  read  much 
lately.' 

The  minister  gave  her  another  keen  look,  while  she  was 
attending  to  something  else,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it 
was  with  a  change  of  tone. 

'  I  had  a  promise  once  that  I  should  see  those  books.' 


IS    IT   WELL  WITH   THEE?  1 95 

'  Any  time,'  said  Diana  eagerly  ;  '  any  time  !  '  For  it 
would  be  an  easy  way  of  entertaining  him,  or  of  getting  rid 
of  him.  Either  would  do. 

'  I  think  I  proposed  a  plan  of  exchange,  which  might 
be  to  the  advantage  of  us  both.' 

'  To  mine,  I  am  sure,'  said  Diana.  '  I  don't  know 
whether  there  can  be  anything  you  would  care  for  among 
the  books  up  stairs  ;  but  if  there  should  be — Would  you 
like  to  go  up  and  look  at  them  ? ' 

'  I  should, — if  it  would  not  give  you  too  much  trouble.' 

It  would  be  no  trouble  just  to  run  up  stairs  and  shew 
him  where  they  were  ;  and  this  Diana  did,  leaving  him  to 
overhaul  the  stock  at  his  leisure.  She  came  down  and 
went  on  with  her  work. 

Diana's  heart  was  too  sound  and  her  head  too  clear,  to 
allow  her  to  be  more  than  to  a  certain  degree  distressed  at 
not  hearing  from  Evan.  She  did  not  doubt  him,  more  than 
she  doubted  herself  ;  and  not  doubting  him,  things  must 
come  out  all  right  by  and  by.  She  was  restive  under  the 
present  pain  ;  at  times  wild  with  the  desire  to  find  and  re- 
move the  something,  whatever  it  was,  which  had  come  be- 
tween Evan  and  her  ;  for  this  girl's  was  no  calm,  easy-go- 
ing nature,  but  one  with  depths  of  passionate  reserve  and 
terrible  possibilities  of  suffering  or  enjoying.  She  had  been 
calm  all  her  life  until  now,  because  these  powers  and  sus- 
ceptibilities had  been  in  an  absolute  poise  ;  an  equilibrium 
that  nothing  had  shaken.  Now  the  depths  were  stirred,  and 
at  times  she  was  in  a  storm  of  impatientpain ;  but  there  came 
revulsions  of  hope  and  quiet  lulls,  when  the  sun  almost 
shone  again  under  the  clearance  made  by  faith  and  hope. 
One  of  these  revulsions  came  now,  after  she  had  set  the 
minister  to  work  upon  her  books.  Perhaps  it  was  simple 
reaction  ;  perhaps  it  was  something  caught  from  the  quiet 


ig6  DIANA. 

sunshiny  manner  and  spirit  of  her  visiter  ;  but  at  her  work 
in  the  kitchen  Diana  grew  quite  calm-hearted.  She  fan- 
cied she  had  discerned  somewhat  of  more  than  usual  ear- 
nestness in  the  minister's  observation  of  her  ;  and  she  be- 
gan to  question  whether  her  looks  or  behaviour  had  fur- 
nished occasion.  Perhaps  she  had  not  been  ready  enough 
to  talk  ;  poor  Diana  knew  it  was  often  tlae  case  now  ;  she 
resolved  she  would  try  to  mend  that  when  he  came  down. 
And  there  was  besides  a  certain  lurking  impatience  of 
the  bearing  of  his  words  ;  they  had  probed  a  little  too  deep, 
and  after  the  manner  of  some  morbid  conditions,  the  pro- 
bing irritated  her.  So  by  and  by,  when  Mr.  Masters 
came  down  with  a  brown  volume  in  his  hand  and  offered 
to  borrow  it  if  she  would  let  him  lend  her  another  of  differ- 
ent colour,  Diana  met  him  and  answered  quite  like  herself 
and  went  on. 

'  Mr.  Masters,  how  can  people  be  always  well  in  body 
mind  and  spirit,  as  you  say  ?  I  am  sure,  people's  bodies 
get  sick,  without  any  fault  of  their-  own  ;  and  there  are  ac- 
cidents ;  and  just  so  there  are  troubles.  People  can't  help 
troubles,  and  they  can't  be  "  well  "  in  mind,  I  suppose,  when 
they  are  in  pain  ? ' 

'  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? '  the  minister  answered  quietly 
while  he  turned  to  the  window  to  look  at  something  in  the 
volume  he  had  brought  down  with  him. 

'  Why  yes  ;  and  so  are  you,  Mr.  Masters  ;  are  you 
not?' 

'You  need  to  know  a  great  deal,  to  be  sure  of  anything,' 
he  answered  in  the  same  tone. 

'  But  you  are  certain  of  this,  Mr.  Masters  ? ' 

'I  shouldn't  like  to  expose  myself  to  your  criticism. 
Let  us  look  at  facts.  It  seems  to  me  that  David  was  '  well ' 
when  he  could  say,  "  Thou  hast  delivered  my  soul  from 


IS   IT   WELL   WITH   THEE?  1 97 

death,  mine  eyes  from  tears,  and  my  feet  from  falling." 
Also  the  man  described  in  another  place — "He  that 
dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High,  shall  abide 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty."  ' 

There  came  a  slight  quiver  across  Diana's  face,  but  her 
words  were  moved  by  another  feeling. 

'  Those  were  people  of  the  old  times ;  I  don't  know 
anything  about  them.  I  mean  people  of  to-day.' 

'  I  think  Paul  was  '  well,'  when  he  could  say,  "  I  have 
learned  in  whatsoever  state  I  am,  therewith  to  be  content."  ' 

'  O,  but  that  is-nonsense,  Mr.  Masters  ! ' 

'  It  was  Paul's  experience.' 

'Yes,  but  it  cannot  be  the  experience  of  other  people. 
Paul  was  inspired.' 

'  To  write  what  was  true, — not  what  was  false,'  said  the 
minister  looking  at  her.  '  You  don't  think  peace  and  con- 
tent come  by  inspiration,  do  you  ? ' 

'  I  did  not  think  about  it,'  said  Diana.  '  But  I  am  sure 
it  is  impossible  to  be  as  he  said.' 

'  I  never  heard  Paul's  truth  questioned  before,'  said  the 
minister,  with  a  dry  sort  of  comicality. 

'  No,  but,  Mr.  Masters,'  said  Diana,  half  by  way  of 
apology,  '  I  spoke  from  my  own  experience.' 

'  And  he  spoke  from  his.' 

'  But  sir, — Mr.  Masters, — seriously,  do  you  think  it  is 
possible  to  be  contented  when  one  is  in  trouble  ? ' 

'  Miss  Diana,  One  greater  than  David  or  Paul  said  this 
"  If  a  man  love  me,  he  will  keep  my  words  ;  and  my  Father 
will  love  him  ;  and  we  will  come  unto  him,  and  make  our 
abode  with  him."     Where  there  is  that  indwelling,  believe 
me,  there  is  no  trouble  that  can  overthrow  content.' 

'  Content  and  pain  together  ? '  said  Diana. 

'  Sometimes  pain  and  very  great  joy.' 


198  DIANA. 

'  You  are  speaking  of  what  I  do  not  understand  in  the 
least,'  said  Diana.  And  her  face  looked  half  incredulous, 
half  sad. 

'  I  wish  you  did  know  it,'  he  said.  No  more  ;  only  those 
few  words  had  a  simplicity,  a  truth,  an  accent  of  sympathy 
and  affection,  that  reached  the  very  depth  of  the  heart  he 
was  speaking  to  ;  as  the  same  things  from  his  lips  had  often 
reached  other  hearts.  He  promised  to  take  care  of  the 
book  in  his  hand,  and  presently  went  away;  with  one  of 
the  warm,  frank,  lingering  grasps  of  the  hand,  that  were 
also  a  characteristic  of  Basil  Masters.  Diana  stood  at 
the  door  watching  him  ride  away.  It  cannot  be  said  she 
was  soothed  by  his  words,  and  perhaps  he  did  not  mean 
she  should  be.  She  stood  with  a  weary  feeling  of  want  in 
her  heart ;  but  she  thought  only  of  the  want  of  Evan. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE     USE     OF     LIVING. 

IT  was  quite  according  to  Diana's  nature,  that  as  the 
winter  went  on,  though  still  without  news  of  Evan,  her  tu- 
mult and  agony  of  mind  quieted  down  into  a  calm  and 
steadfast  waiting.  Her  spirit  was  too  healthy  for  suspicion, 
too  true  for  doubt  ;  and  put  away  doubt  and  suspicion, 
what  was  left  but  the  assurance  that  there  had  been  some 
accident  or  mistake  ;  from  the  consequences  of  which  she 
was  suffering,  no  doubt,  but  which  would  all  be  made 
right  and  come  out  clear  so  soon  as  there  could  be  an  op- 
portunity for  explanation.  For  that,  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  wait  a  little  ;  with  the  returning  mild  weather, 
Evan  would  be  able  to  procure  a  furlough,  he  would  be  at 
her  side,  and  then — Nothing  then  but  union  and  joy.  She 
could  wait ;  and  even  in  the  waiting,  her  healthy  spirit  as 
it  were  sloughed  off  care  and  came  back  again  to  its  usual 
placid,  strong,  bright  condition. 

So  the  winter  went ;  a  winter  which  was  ever  after  a 
blank  in  Diana's  remembrance  ;  and  the  cold  weather 
broke  up  into  the  frosts  and  thaws  that  sugar-makers  love ; 
and  in  such  a  March  day  it  was,  the  word  came  to  Mrs. 
Starling's  house  that  old  Squire  Bowdoin  was  dead.  The 
like  weather  never  failed  in  after  years  to  bring  back  to 
Diana  that  one  day  and  its  tidings  and  the  strange  shock 
they  gave  her. 


2OO  DIANA. 

'  'Twas  kind  o'  sudden,'  said  the  news-bringer,  who  was 
Joe  Bartlett ;  '  he  was  took  all  to  once  and  jes'  dropped — • 
like  a  ripe  chestnut.' 

'  Why,  like  a  ripe  chestnut  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Starling 
sharply. 

'  Wai,  I  had  to  say  suthin',  and  that  come  first.  The 
Scripter  doos  speak  of  a  shock  o'  corn  in  his  season,  don't 
it,  Mis'  Starling  ? ' 

'  What's  the  likeness  between  a  shock  o'  corn  and  a 
chestnut,  Joe  ?  I  can't  abide  to  hear  folks  talk  nonsense. 
Who's  at  Elmfield  ? ' 

'  Ain't  nary  one  there  that  had  ought  to  be  there  ;  nary 
one  but  the  help.' 

'  But  they're  comin'  ? '  said  Mrs.  Starling,  lifting  up 
her  head  for  the  answer. 

4  Wai,  I  can't  say.  Evan,  he's  too  fur  ;  and  I  guess  men 
in  his  place  hain't  their  ch'ice.  And  his  folks  is  flourishy 
kind  o'  bodies ;  I  don't  set  no  count  on  'em,  for  my  part.' 

'  Well,  everybody  else  '11  be  there  and  shame  'em  if 
they  ain't,'  said  Mrs.  Starling.  '  How's  your  mother,  Joe  ?' 

'  Wai,  I  guess  she's  ripe,'  said  Joe  with  a  slow  intona- 
tion, loving  and  reverent ;  '  but  she's  goin'  to  hold  on  to 
this  state  o'  things  yet  awhile.  Good  day  t'ye  !  ' 

Diana  went  to  the  old  man's  funeral  with  her  mother ; 
in  a  sort  of  tremble  of  spirits,  looking  forward  to  what  she 
might  possibly  see  or  hear.  But  no  one  was  there  ;  no 
one  in  whom  she  had  any  interest;  none  of  Mr.  Bowdoin's 
grandchildren  could  make  it  convenient  to  come  to  his 
funeral.  The  large  gathering  of  friends  and  neighbours 
and  distant  relations  were  but  an  unmeaning  crowd  to 
Diana's  perceptions. 

What  difference  would  this  change  at  Elmfield  make 
in  her  own  prospects  ?  Would  Mrs.  Reverdy  and  her  set 


THE   USE   OF   LIVING.  201 

come  to  Elmfield  as  usual,  and  so  draw  Evan  as  a  matter 
of  course  ?  They  might  not,  perhaps.  But  what  difference 
could  it  be  to  Diana  ?  Evan  would  come,  at  all  events,  and 
under  any  circumstances  ;  even  if  his  coming  let  the  secret 
out ;  he  would  come,  and  nothing  would  keep  him  from  it ; 
the  necessity  of  seeing  her  would  be  above  all  other  except 
military  necessities.  Diana  thought  she  wished  the  old 
gentlemen  had  not  died.  But  it  could  make  no  difference. 
As  soon  as  he  could,  Evan  would  be  there. 

She  returned  to  her  quiet  waiting.  But  now  nature 
began  to  be  noisy  about  her.  It  seemed  that  everything 
had  a  voice.  Spring  winds  said,  '  He  is  coming ; '  the  per- 
fume of  opening  buds  was  sweet  with  his  far-off  presence ; 
the  very  gales  that  chased  the  clouds,  to  her  fancy  chased 
the  minutes  as  well ;  the  waking  up  of  the  household  and 
farm  activities,  said  that  now  Diana's  inner  life  would  come 
back  to  its  wonted  course  and  arrangements. 

The  spring  winds  blew  themselves  out ;  spring  buds 
opened  into  full  leafage  ;  spring  activities  gradually  merged 
into  the  steady  routine  of  summer ;  and  still  Diana  saw 
nothing  and  still  she  heard  nothing  of  Evan. 

She  was  patient  now  by  force  of  will ;  doggedly  trust- 
ing. She  would  not  doubt.  None  of  the  family  came  to 
Elmfield ;  so  there  was  no  news  by  the  way  that  could 
reach  her.  Mrs.  Starling  watched  the  success  of  her  ex- 
periment and  was  satisfied.  Will  began  to  come  about 
the  house  more  and  more. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  summer,  more  than  a  year  since 
her  first  introduction  to  Evan,  that  Diana  found  herself 
again  one  day  at  Mother  Bartlett's  cottage.  She  always 
made  visits  there  from  time  to  time ;  to-day  she  had  come 
for  no  special  reason  but  a  restlessness  which  possessed  her 
at  home.  The  old  lady  was  in  her  usual  chimney  corner, 


2O2  DIANA. 

knitting,  as  a  year  ago  ;  and  Diana,  having  prepared  the 
mid-day  repast  and  cleared  away  after  it,  was  sitting  on 
the  doorstep  at  the  open  door  ;  whence  her  eye  went  out 
to  the  hillside  pasture  and  followed  the  two  cows  which 
were  slowly  moving  about  there.  It  was  as  quiet  a  bit  of 
nature  as  could  be  found  anywhere  ;  and  Diana  was  very 
quiet  looking  at  it.  But  Mrs.  Bartlett's  eye  was  upon  her 
much  more  than  upon  her  work  ;  which  indeed  could  go  on 
quite  well  without  such  supervision.  She  broke  silence 
at  last,  speaking  with  an  imperceptible  little  sigh. 

'  And  so,  dear,  the  minister  preached  his  sermon  about 
the  fashions  last  Sabbath  ? ' 

'  About  fashion,'  said  Diana.  '  He  had  promised  it 
long  ago.' 

'  And  what  did  he  say,  dear?' 

'  He  said,  "the  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away." ' 

'  But  he  said  something  more,  I  suppose  ?  /  could  have 
said  that.' 

'  He  said  a  great  deal  more,'  replied  Diana.  '  It  was 
a  very  curious  sermon.' 

'  As  I  hain't  heard  it,  and  you  hev',  perhaps  you'll  oblige 
me  with  some  more  of  it.' 

'  It  was  a  very  curious  sermon,'  Diana  repeated.  '  Not 
in  the  least  like  what  you  would  have  expected.  There 
wasn't  much  about  fashion  in  it;  and  yet,  somehow  it 
seemed  to  be  all  that.' 

'  What  was  his  text  ? ' 

'  I  can't  tell ;  something  about  "  the  grace  of  the  fashion 
of  it."  I  don't  remember  how  the  words  went.' 

'  I  know,  I  guess,'  said  the  old  lady.  '  Twas  in  James, 
•warn't  it  ?  Something  like  this  ?  "  The  sun  is  no  sooner 
risen  with  a  burning  heat ."  ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  that  was  it.' 


THE    USE    OF    LIVING.  2O3 

' " but  it  withereth  the  grass,  and  the  flower  there- 
of falleth,  and  the  grace  of  the  fashion  of  it  perisheth."  ' 

'  That  was  it,'  assented  Diana. 

'  So  he  preached  about  the  shortness  of  life  ? ' 

'  No,  not  at  all.  He  began  with  those  words,  and  just 
a  sentence  or  two — and  it  was  beautiful,  too,  mother, — 
explaining  them ;  and  then  he  said  the  Bible  hadn't  much 
in  it  directly  speaking  of  our  fashions  ;  he  would  give  us 
what  there  was  and  let  us  make  what  we  could  of  it ;  so  he 
did.' 

'  You  can  make  a  good  deal  of  it  if  you  try,'  said  Mrs. 
Bartlett.  '  And  then,  dear  ?  ' 

'  Then  he  went  off,  you'd  never  think  where  ;  to  the 
last  chapter  of  Proverbs  ;  and  he  described  the  woman 
described  there  ;  and  he  made  her  out  so  beautiful  and 
good  and  clever  and  wise,  that  somehow,  without  saying 
a  word  about  fashion,  he  made  us  feel  how  she  would 
never  have  had  any  concern  about  it ;  how  she  was  above 
it,  and  five  times  more  beautiful  without  than  she  would 
have  been  with,  the  foolish  ways  of  people  now-a-days. 
But  he  didn't  say  that ;  you  only  felt  it.  I  don't  much  be- 
lieve there  are  any  such  women,  mother.' 

'  I  hope  and  believe  you'll  make  just  such  a  one, 
Diana.' 

'  I  ? '  said  the  girl,  with  a  curious  intonation  ;  then 
subsiding  again  immediately,  she  sat  as  she  had  sat  at 
her  own  door  a  year  ago,  with  arms  folded,  gazing  out 
upon  the  summery  hill  pasture  where  the  cows  were  leis- 
urely feeding.  But  now  her  eyes  had  a  steady,  hard  look 
not  busy  with  the  sunshiny  turf  or  the  deep  blue  sky, 
against  which  the  line  of  the  hill  cut  so  soft  and  clear. 
Then  the  vision  had  been  all  outward. 

'  And  that  was  his  sermon  ? '  saicl  the  old  lady  with  a 
dash  of  disappointment. 


204  DIANA. 

'  No !  O  no,'  said  Diana  rousing  herself.  '  He  went 

on  then how  shall  I  tell  you  ?  Do  you  remember  a 

verse  in  the  Revelation  about  the  church  coming  down  as 
a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband  ? ' 

'  Ay ! '  said  the  old  lady  with  a  gratified  change  of 
voice,  '  Well  ? ' 

'  He  went  on  to  describe  that  adornment.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  he  did  it ;  I  can't  repeat  what  he  said  ;  hut  it  was 
inner  adornment,  you  know  ;  "  all  glorious  within,"  I  re- 
member he  said ;  and  without  a  word  more  about  what  he 
started  with,  he  made  one  feel  that  there  is  no  real  adorn- 
ment but  that  kind,  nor  any  other  worth  a  thought.  I 
heard  Kate  Boddington  telling  mother  as  we  came  out  of 
church,  that  she  felt  as  cheap  as  dirt,  with  all  her  silk  dress 
and  new  bonnet ;  and  Mrs.  Carpenter,  who  was  close  by, 
said  she  felt  there  wasn't  a  bit  of  her  that  would  bear 
looking  at.' 

'What  did  your  mother  say  ? ' 

'  Nothing.     She  didn't  understand  it,  she  said.' 

'  And,  Di,  how  did  you  feel  ? ' 

'  I  don't  think  I  felt  anything,  mother.' 

'  How  come  that  about  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  I  believe  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  fash- 
ion of  this  world  never  passed  away  ;  it's  the  same  thing, 
year  in  and  year  out.' 

4  What  ails  you,  Diana?  her  old  friend  asked  after  a 
pause. 

'  Nothing.  I'm  sort  o'  tired.  I  don't  see  how  folks  stand 
it,  to  live  a  long  life.' 

'  But  life  has  not  been  very  hard  to  you,  honey.' 

'  It  needn't  be  hard  for  that,'  Diana  answered,  with  a 
kind  of  choke  in  her  voice.  '  Perhaps  the  hardest  of  all 
would  be  to  go  on  an  unvarying  jog  trot,  and  to  know  it 
would  always  be  so  all  one's  life.' 


THE    USE   OF   LIVING.  2O5 

'What  makes  life  all  of  a  sudden  so  tiresome  to  you, 
Di?' 

'  Something  I  haven't  got,  I  suppose,'  said  the  girl  drear- 
ily. '  I  have  enough  to  eat  and  drink.' 

'  You  ain't  as  bright  as  you  used  to  be  a  year  ago.' 

'  I  have  grown  older,  and  have  got  more  experience.' 

'  If  life  is  good  for  nothin'  else,  Di,  it's  good  to  make 
ready  for  what  comes  after.' 

'  I  don't  believe  that  doctrine,  mother,'  said  Diana  ener- 
getically. '  Life  is  meant  to  be  life,  and  not  getting  ready 
to  live.  'Tisn't  meant  to  be  all  brown  and  sawdusty  here, 
that  people  may  have  it  more  fresh  and  pleasant  by  and 
by.' 

'  No  ;  but  to  drive  them  out  o'  this  pasture,  maybe.  If 
the  cows  found  always  the  grass  long  in  the  meadow,  when 
do  you  think  they'd  go  up  the  hill  ? ' 

A  quick,  restless  change  of  position  was  the  only  an- 
swer to  this  ;  an  answer  most  unlike  the  natural  calm 
grace  of  Diana's  movements.  The  old  lady  looked  at  her 
wistfully,  doubtfully,  two  or  three  times  up  and  down  from 
her  knitting,  before  speaking  again.  And  then  speaking 
was  prevented,  for  the  other  door  opened  and  the  minister 
came  in.  • 

Basil  was  always  welcome,  whatever  house  or  company 
he  entered  ;  he  could  fall  in  with  any  mood,  take  up  any 
subject,  sympathize  in  anybody's  concerns.  That  was  part 
of  his  secret  of  power,  but  that  was  not  all.  There  was 
about  him  an  aura  of  happiness,  so  to  speak  ;  a  steadfast- 
ness of  the  inner  nature,  which  gave  a  sense  of  calm  to 
others  almost  by  the  force  of  sympathy ;  and  the  strength  of 
a  quiet  will,  which  was  however  inflexible.  All  that  was 
restless,  uncertain  and  unsatisfied,  in  men's  hearts  and 
lives,  found  something  in  him  to  which  they  clung  as  if  it 


2O6  DIANA. 

had  been  an  anchor  of  hope ;  and  so  his  popularity  had  a 
very  wide,  and  at  first  sight  very  perplexing,  range. 

The  two  wom<in  in  Mrs.  Bartlett's  cottage  were  glad  to 
see  him  ;  and  they  had  reason.  Perhaps,  for  he  was  very 
quick,  he  discerned  that  the  social  atmosphere  had  been 
somewhat  hazy  when  he  came  in  ;  for  through  all  his  stay 
his  talk  was  so  bright  and  strong  that  it  met  the  needs  of 
both  hearers.  Even  Diana  laughed  with  him  and  listened 
to  him  ;  and  when  he  rose  to  take  leave  she  asked  if  he 
came  on  horseback  to-day  ? 

'  No,  I  am  ease-loving.  I  borrowed  Mr.  Chalmers' 
buggy.' 

'  Which  way  are  you  going  now,  sir,  if  you  please  ? ' 

He  hesitated  an  instant,  looked  at  her,  and  answered 
quite  demurely,  '  I  think,  your  way/ 

'  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  me  so  far  as  home 
with  you,  then  ? ' 

'  I  don't  see  any  objection  to  that,'  said  Basil  in  the 
same  cool  manner.  And  Diana  hastily  took  her  bonnet 
and  kissed  her  old  friend,  and  in  another  minute  or  two 
she  was  in  the  buggy  and  they  were  driving  off. 

If  the  minister  suspected  somewhat,  he  would  spoil 
nothing  by  being  in  a  hurry.  He  drove  leisurely,  saying 
that  it  was  too  hot  weather  to  ask  much  exertion  even  from 
a  horse  ;  and  making  little  slight  remarks,  in  a  manner  so 
gentle  and  quiet  as  to  be  very  reassuring.  But  if  that  was 
what  Diana  wanted,  she  wanted  a  great  deal  of  it ;  for  she 
sat  looking  straight  between  the  edges  of  her  sunbonnet, 
absolutely  silent,  hardly  even  making  the  replies  her  com- 
panion's words  called  for.  At  last  he  was  silent  too.  The 
good  grey  horse  went  very  soberly  on,  not  urged  at  all ; 
but  yet  even  a  slow  rate  of  motion  will  take  you  to  the  end 
of  anything,  given  the  time  ;  and  every  minute  saw  the 


THE   USE   OF   LIVING.  2O/ 

rods  of  Diana's  road  getting  behind  her.  I  suppose  she 
felt  that,  and  spoke  at  last  in  the  desperate  sense  of  it. 
When  a  person  is  under  that  urgency  he  does  not  always 
choose  his  words. 

'  Mr.  Masters,  is  there  any  way  of  making  life  anything 
but  a  miserable  failure  ? ' 

The  lowered  cadences  of  Diana's  voice,  a  thread  of 
bitterness  in  her  utterance,  quite  turned  the  minister's 
thought  from  anything  like  a  light  or  a  gay  answer.  He 
said  very  gravely, 

'  Nobody's  life  need  be  that.' 

'  How  are  you  to  get  rid  of  it  ? ' 

'  Of  that  result,  you  mean? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'Will  you  state  the  difficulty,  as  it  appears  to  you  ?' 

'  Why  look  at  it,'  said  Diana  more  hesitatingly  ;  '  what 
do  most  people's  lives  amount  to  ?  what  does  mine  ?  To 
dress  oneself,  and  eat  and  drink,  and  go  through  a  round 
of  things,  which  only  mean  that  you  will  dress  yourself  and 
eat  and  drink  again  and  do  the  same  things  to-morrow, 
and  the  next  day ; — what  does  it  all  amount  to  in  the  end  ? ' 

'  Is  life  no  more  than  that  to  you  ? ' 

Diana  hesitated,  but  then,  with  a  tone  still  lowered,  said 
'No.' 

The  minister  was  silent  now,  and  presently  Diana  went 
on  again. 

'The  whole  world  seems  to  me  just  so.  People  live, 
and  die  ;  and  they  might  just  as  well  not  have  lived,  for 
all  that  their  being  in  the  world  has  done.  And  yet  they 
have  lived — and  suffered.' 

More  than  she  knew  was  told  in  the  utterance  of  that 
last  word.  The  minister  was  still  not  in  a  hurry  to  speak. 
When  he  did,  his  question  came  as  a  surprise. 


2O8  DIANA. 

'  You  believe  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  Miss  Diana  ? ' 

'  Certainly,'  she  said  ;  feeling  with  down-cast  heart,  '  O, 
now  a  sermon  ! ' — 

'  You  believe  that  God  made  the  earth,  and  made  man 
to  occupy  it  ? ' 

'  Yes — certainly.' 

*  What  do  you  think  he  made  him  for  ? ' 

'  I  know  what  the  catechism  says,'  Diana  began 
slowly. 

'  No,  no  ;  my  question  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  cat 
echism.  Do  you  believe  that  the  Creator's  intention  was 
that  men  should  live  purposeless  lives,  like  what  you  de- 
scribe ? ' 

'  I  can't  believe  it.' 

'  Then  what  purpose  are  we  here  for  ?  Why  am  I,  and 
why  are  you,  on  the  earth  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Diana  faintly.  The  talk  was  not 
turning  out  well  for  her  wish,  she  thought. 

'  To  find  that  out, — and  to  get  in  harmony  with  the  an- 
swer,— is  the  great  secret  of  life.' 

'  Will  you  help  me,  Mr.  Masters  ? '  said  Diana  humbly. 
'  It  is  all  dark  and  wild  to  me, — I  see  no  comfort  in  any- 
thing. If  there  were  nothing  better  than  this,  one  would 
rather  not  be  on  the  earth.' 

Mr.  Masters  might  have  pondered  with  a  little  surprise 
on  the  strength  of  the  currents  that  flow  sometimes  where 
the  water  looks  calm ;  but  he  had  no  time,  and  in  truth  was 
in  no  mood  for  moralizing  just  then.  His  answer  was 
somewhat  abrupt,  though  gentle  as  possible. 

'  What  do  you  want,  Miss  Diana  ? ' 

But  the  answer  to  that  was  a  choked  sob,  and  then, 
breaking  all  bounds  of  her  habit  and  intention,  a  passion- 
ate storm  of  tears.  Diana  was  frightened  at  herself ;  but 


THE   USE   OF   LIVING.  2OQ 

nevertheless,  the  sudden  probe  of  the  question,  with  the 
sympathetic  gentleness  of  it,  and  the  too  great  contrast  be- 
tween the  speaker's  happy,  calm,  strong  content  and  her  own 
disordered,  distracted  life,  suddenly  broke  her  down.  Nei- 
ther, if  you  open  the  sluice-gates  to  such  a  current,  can  you 
immediately  get  them  shut  again.  This  she  found,  though 
greatly  afraid  of  the  conclusions  her  companion  might 
draw.  For  a  few  minutes  her  passion  was  utterly  uncon- 
trolled. 

If  Basil  drew  conclusions,  he  was  not  in  a  hurry  to 
make  them  known.  He  did  not  at  that  time  follow  the  con- 
versation any  further;  only  remarking  cheerfully,  and  sym- 
pathetically too,  'We  must  have  some  more  talk  about 
this,  Miss  Diana  ;  but  we'll  take  another  opportunity ; '  and 
so  presently  left  her  at  her  own  door,  with  the  warm,  strong 
grasp  of  the  hand  that  many  a  one  in  trouble  had  learned  to 
know.  There  is  strange  intelligence  somehow  in  our  fingers. 
They  can  say  what  lips  fail  to  say.  Diana  went  into  the 
house  feeling  that  her  minister  was  a  tower  of  strength  and 
a  treasury  of  kindness. 

She  found  company.  Mrs.  Flandin  and  her  mother 
were  sitting  together. 

'  Hev'  you  come  home  to  stay,  Diana  ? '  was  her  moth- 
er's sarcastic  salutation. 

'  How  come  you  and  the  Dominie  to  be  a  ridin'  togeth- 
er ? '  was  the  other  lady's  blunter  question. 

*  I  had  the  chance,'  said  Diana,  '  and  I  asked  him  to 
bring  me.  It's  too  hot  for  walking.' 

'And  how  come  he  to  be  in  a  buggy,  so  convenient? 
He  always  goes  tearin'  round  on  the  back  of  that  ere  grey 
horse,  I  thought.  I  never  see  a  minister  ride  so  afore  ;  and 
I  don't  think,  Mis'  Starling,  it's  suitable.  What  if  he  was  to 
break  his  neck,  on  the  way  to  visit  some  sick  man  ? ' 
14 


2IO  DIANA. 

'  Jim  Treadvvell  broke  his  neck  out  of  a  wagon,'  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Ah,  well !  there  ain't  no  security,  no  place  ;  but  don't 
it  strike  you,  now,  Mis'  Starling,  that  a  minister  had  ought 
to  set  an  example  of  steady  goin',  and  not  turn  the  heads 
of  the  young  men,  and  young  women,  with  his  capers  ? ' 

'  He  is  a  young  man  himself,  Mrs.  Flandin,' — Diana 
was  bold  to  say. 

'Wall — I  know  he  is,'  said  the  lady  in  a  disapproving 
way.  '  I  know  he  is  ;  and  he  can't  help  it ;  but  if  I  had 
my  way,  I'd  allays  have  a  minister  as  much  as  fifty  year 
old.  It  looks  better,'  said  Mrs.  Flandin  complacently ; 
'  and  it  is  better.' 

'  What  is  he  to  do  all  the  first  fifty  years  of  his  life 
then  ? ' 

'Wall,  my  dear,  I  hain't  got  the  arrangement  of  things  ; 
I  don't  know.  I  know  Will  would  hitch  up  and  carry  you 
anywheres  you  want  t6  go, — if  it's  a  wagon  you  want  any 
time.' 

After  that,  Will  made  good  his  mother's  promise,  so  far 
as  intentions  went.  He  was  generally  on  hand  when  any- 
thing was  to  be  done  in  which  himself  and  his  smart  buggy 
could  be  useful.  Indeed  he  was  very  often  on  hand  at 
other  times  ;  dropping  in  after  supper,  and  appearing  with 
baskets,  which  were  found  to  contain  some  of  the  Flandin 
pears  or  the  fine  red  apples  that  grew  in  a  corner  of  the 
lot  and  were  famous.  Some  of  his  own  bees'  honey  Will 
brought  another  time,  and  a  bushel  of  uncommonly  fine 
nuts.  Of  course  this  was  in  the  fall,  to  which  the  weary 
weeks  of  Diana's  summer  had  at  length  dragged  themselves 
out.  But  if  Will  hoped  that  honey  would  sweeten  Diana's 
reception  of  him  and  his  attentions,  as  yet  it  did  not  seem 
to  have  the  desired  effect.  In  truth,  though  Will  could 


THE    USE    OF    LIVING.  211 

never  suspect  it,  her  brain  was  so  heavy  with  other  thoughts 
that  she  was  only  in  a  vague  and  general  way  conscious  of 
his  presence  ;  and  of  his  officious  gallantries  scarcely  aware. 
So  little  aware,  indeed,  of  their  bearing,  that  on  two  or 
three  occasions  she  suffered  herself  to  be  conveyed  in 
Will's  buggy  to  or  from  some  gathering  of  the  neighbours  ; 
Mrs.  Starling  or  Mrs.  Flandin  had  arranged  it,  and  Diana 
had  quite  blindly  fallen  into  the  trap.  And  then  the  young 
man,  not  unreasonably  elated  and  inspirited,  began  to  make 
his  visits  to  Mrs.  Starling's  house  more  frequent  than  ever. 
It  was  little  he  did  to  recommend  himself  when  he  was 
there  ;  he  generally  set  watching  Diana,  carrying  on  a 
spasmodic  and  interrupted  conversation  with  Mrs.  Star- 
ling about  farm  affairs,  and  seizing  the  opportunity  of  a 
dropped  spool  or  an  unwound  skein  of  yarn  to  draw  near 
Diana  and  venture  some  word  to  her.  Poor  Diana  felt  in 
those  days  so  much  like  a  person  whose  earthly  ties  are  all 
broken,  that  it  did  not  come  into  her  head  in  what  a  dif- 
ferent light  she  stood  to  other  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A    SNOWSTORM. 

As  the  weeks  of  September  rolled  away,  they  brought, 
by  the  necessary  force  of  associations,  a  sharp  waking  up  to 
Diana's  torpor.  These,  last  year,  had  been  the  weeks  of 
her  happiness  ;  happiness  had  come  to  her  dressed  in 
these  robes  of  autumn  light  and  colour ;  and  now  every 
breath  of  the  soft  atmosphere,  every  gleam  from  the  chang- 
ing foliage,  the  light's  peculiar  tone,  and  the  soft  indolence 
of  the  hazy  days,  stole  into  the  recesses  of  Diana's  heart 
and  smote  on  the  nerves  that  answered  every  touch  with  vi- 
brations of  pain.  The  yEolian  harp  that  had  sounded  such 
soft  harmonies  a  year  ago,  when  the  notes  rose  and  fell 
in  breathings  of  joy,  clanged  now  with  sharp  and  keen  dis- 
cords that  Diana  could  scarcely  bear.  The  time  of  black- 
berries passed  without  her  joining  the  yearly  party  which 
went  as  usual ;  she  escaped  that ;  but  there  was  no  es- 
caping September.  And  when  in  due  course  the  time  for 
the  equinoctial  storms  came,  and  the  storms  did  not  fail, 
though  coming  this  year  somewhat  later  than  the  last, 
Diana  felt  like  a  person  wakened  up  to  life  to  die  the 
second  time.  Her  mood  all  changed.  From  a  dull, 
miserable  apathy,  which  yet  had  somewhat  of  the  numbness 
of  death  in  it,  she  woke  up  to  the  intense  life  of  pain,  and 
to  a  corresponding  but  in  her  most  unwonted  irritability  of 
feeling.  All  of  a  sudden,  as  it  were,  she  grew  sensitive  to 


A   SNOWSTORM.  213 

whatever  in  her  life  and  surroundings  was  untoward  or 
trying.  She  read  through  Will  Flandin's  devotion  ;  she 
saw  what  her  mother  was  "  driving  at,"  as  she  would  have 
expressed  it.  And  the  whole  reality  of  her  relations  to 
Evan  and  his  relations  to  her  stood  in  colours  as  distinct  as 
those  of  the  red  and  green  maple  leaves,  and  unsoftened 
by  the  least  haze  of  self-delusion.  In  the  dash  of  the  rain 
and  the  roar  of  the  wind,  in  the  familiar  swirl  of  the  elm 
branches,  she  read  as  it  were  her  sentence  of  death  ;  be- 
fore this  she  had  not  been  dead,  only  stunned ;  now  she 
was  wakened  up  to  die.  Nature  herself,  which  had  been 
so  kind  a  year  ago,  brought  her  now  the  irrevocable  mes- 
sage. A  whole  year  had  gone  by,  a  year  of  silence  ;  it  was 
merely  impossible  that  Evan  could  be  true  to  her.  If  he 
had  been  true,  he  would  have  overleaped  all  barriers, 
rather  than  let  this  silence  last ;  but  indeed  he  had  no 
barriers  to  overleap ;  he  had  only  to  write  ;  and  he  had 
plenty  of  time  for  it.  She  might  have  overleaped  barriers, 
earlier  in  the  year,  if  she  could  have  known  the  case  was 
so  desperate  ;  and  yet,  Diana  reflected,  she  could  not  and 
would  not,  even  so.  It  was  well  she  had  not  tried.  For  if 
Evan  needed  to  be  held,  she  would  not  put  out  a  finger  to 
hold  him. 

Of  this  change  in  Diana's  mood  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
nothing  was  visible.  Feeling  as  if  every  nerve  and  sense 
were  become  an  avenue  of  living  pain,  dying  mentally  a 
slow  death,  she  shewed  nothing  of  it  to  others.  Mind  and 
body  were  so  sound  and  strong,  and  the  poise  of  her  nature 
was  matched  with  such  a  sweet  dignity,  that  she  was  able 
to  go  through  her  usual  round  of  duties  in  quite  her  usual 
way  ;  "  die  and  make  no  sign."  Nothing  was  neglected 
in  any  wise,  nothing  was  slurred  or  hurried  over ;  thor-. 
oughly,  diligently,  punctually,  she  did  the  work  from  which 


214  DIANA. 

all  heart  was  gone  out,  and  even  Mrs.  Starling,  keen  enough 
to  see  anything  if  only  she  had  a  clue  to  it,  watched  and 
saw  nothing.  For  Diana's  cheek  had  been  pale  for  a  good 
while  now,  and  she  had  never  been  a  talkative  person, 
lately  less  than  ever ;  so  the  fact  that  in  these  days  she 
never  talked  at  all,  did  not  strike  her  mother.  But  such 
power  of  self-containing  is  a  dangerous  gift  for  a  woman  ! 

No  doubt  the  extreme  bustle  and  variety  of  the  autumn 
and  early  winter  work  helped  Mrs.  Starling  to  shut  her 
eyes  to  what  she  did  not  want  to  see  ;  helped  Diana  too. 
Fall  ploughing  and  sowing  were  to  be  attended  to  ;  laying 
down  the  winter's  butter  ;  storing  the  vegetables,  disposing 
of  the  grain,  fatting  cattle,  wood  cutting  and  hauling,  and 
repairing  of  fences,  which  Mrs.  Starling  always  had  done 
punctually  in  the  fall  as  soon  as  the  ploughs  were  put  up. 
For  nothing  under  Mrs.  Starling's  care  was  ever  left  at 
loose  ends ;  there  was  not  a  better  farmer  in  Pleasant 
Valley  than  she.  Then  the  winter  closed  in,  early  in  those 
rather  high  latitudes ;  and  pork -killing  time  came,  when 
for  some  time  nothing  was  even  thought  of  in  the  house 
but  pork  in  its  various  forms ;  lard,  sausage,  bacon  and 
hams,  with  extras  of  souse  and  headcheese.  Snow  had 
fallen  already ;  and  winter  was  setting  in  betimes,  the 
knowing  ones  said. 

So  came  one  Sunday  a  little  before  Christmas.  It 
brought  a  lull  in  the  midst  of  the  pork  business.  Hands 
were  washed  finally  for  the  whole  day,  and  the  kitchen 
"  redd  up."  The  weariness  of  Diana's  nerves  welcomed 
the  respite  ;  for  business,  which  oftimes  is  a  help  to  bearing 
pain,  in  some  moods  aggravates  it  at  every  touch;  and 
Diana  was  glad  to  think  that  she  might  go  into  her  own 
room  and  lock  the  door  and  be  alone  with  her  misery.  The 
day  was  cloudy  and  threatening,  and  Mrs.  Starling  had 


A   SNOWSTORM.  21$ 

avowed  her  purpose  not  to  go  to  church.  She  was 
"  tuckered  out,"  she  said.  "  And  I  am  sure  the  Sabbath 
was  given  us  for  rest."  Diana  made  no  answer  ;  she  was 
washing  up  the  breakfast  things. 

'  I  guess  we  ain't  early,  neither,'  Mrs.  Starling  went  on. 
4  Well — one  day.  in  seven  folks  must  sleep ;  and  I  didn't 
get  that  headcheese  out  of  my  hands  till  'most  eleven 
o'clock.  I  guess  it's  first  rate,  Diana  ;  we'll  try  a  bit  this 
noon.  Who's  that  stoppin'  ? — Will  Flandin,  if  I  see  straight ; 
That's  thoughtful  of  him  ;  now  he'll  take  you  to  church, 
Di.' 

Will  he  ?  thought  Diana.  Flandin  came  in.  Dressed  in 
his  Sunday  best  he  always  seemed  to  Diana  specially  lum- 
bering and  awkward ;  and  to  day  his  hair  was  massed 
into  smoothness  by  means  of  I  know  not  what  bountiful 
lubrication,  which  looked  very  greasy  and  smelt  very  strong 
of  cloves.  His  neck-tie  was  blue  with  yellow  spots  ;  about 
the  right  thing,  Will  thought ;  it  was  strange  what  a  disgust 
it  gave  Diana.  What's  in  a  neck-tie  ? 

'  Coin'  to  snow,  Will  ? '  asked  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Wall — guess  likely.     Not  jes'  yet,  though.' 

'  Your  mother  got  through  with  her  pork  ? ' 

'  Wall — I  guess  not.  Seems  to  me,  ef  she  was  through, 
there  wouldn't  be  so  many  pickle  tubs  round.' 

'  Good  weight  ? ' 

<  Wall— fair.' 

'  Our'n's  better  than  that.  Tell  you  what,  Will,  your 
pigs  don't  get  the  sunshine  enough.' 

'  Don't  reckon  they  know  the  difference,'  said  Will 
smiling  and  glancing  over  towards  Diana,  but  Diana  was 
gone.  '  Were  you  calculatin'  to  go  to  meetin'  to-day,  Mis' 
Starling  ? ' 

'  Guess  not  to-day,  Will.  I'm  gettin'  too  old  to  work 
seven  days  in  a  week — in  pork-killin'  time,  anyhow.  I'm 


2l6  DIANA. 

calculatin'  to  stay  home.  Diana's  always  for  goin',  though ; 
she's  gone  to  get  ready,  I  guess.  She  ain't  tired.' 

Silence.  Diana's  room  was  too  far  off  for  them  to  hear 
her  moving  about,  and  Mrs.  Starling  sat  down  and  stretched 
out  her  feet  towards  the  fire.  Both  parties  meditating. 

'  You  and  she  hain't  come  to  any  understanding  yet  ? ' 
the  lady  began.  Will  shifted  his  position  uneasily  and 
spoke  not. 

'  I  wouldn't  wait  too  long,  if  I  was  you.  She  might  take 
a  notion  to  somebody  else,  you  know,  and  then  you  and 
me'd  be  nowhere.' 

'  Has  she,  Mis'  Starling  ? '     Will  asked,  terrified. 

'  She  hain't  told  me  nothing  of  it,  if  she  has  ;  and  I  hain't 
seen  her  look  sweet  on  anybody  ;  but  she  might,  you  know, 
Will,  if  anybody  came  along  that  she  fancied.  I  always  like 
to  get  the  halter  over  my  horse's  head,  and  then  I  know 
I've  got  him.' 

The  image  suggested  nothing  but  difficulty  to  Will's 
imagination.  A  halter  over  Diana's  stately  neck  ! 

'  I  allays  catch  a  horse  by  cornerin'  him,'  he  said  sheep- 
ishly, and  again  moving  restlessly  in  his  chair. 

'  That  won't  answer  in  this  chase,1  said  Mrs.  Starling. 
'  Diana'll  walk  up  to  you  of  her  own  accord,  if  she  comes  at 
all  ;  but  you  must  hold  out  your  hand,  Will.' 

'  Ain't  I  a  doin'  that  all  the  while,  Mis'  Starling  ? '  said 
Will,  whom  every  one  of  his  friend's  utterances  seemed  to 
put  further  and  further  away  from  his  goal. 

'  I  reckon  she'll  come,  all  right,'  said  Mrs.  Starling 
reassuringly  ;  '  but  you  know^  girls  ain't  obliged  to  see  any- 
body's hand  till  they  have  to.  You  all  like  'em  better  for 
bein' skittish.  I  don't.  She  ain't  skittish  with  me,  neither  ; 
and  she  won't  be  with  you,  when  you've  caught  her  once. 
Take  your  time,  only  I  wouldn't  be  too  long  about  it,  as  I 
said.' 


A    SNOWSTORM.  2 1/ 

Poor  Will !  The  sweat  stood  upon  his  brow  with  the 
prospect  of  what  was  before  him,  perhaps  that  very  day  ; 
for  what  time  could  be  better  for  "  holding  out  his  hand  " 
to  Diana,  than  a  solitary  sleigh  ride.  Then,  if  he  held  out 
his  hand  and  she  wouldn't  see  it  ! 

Meanwhile.  —  Diana  had,  as  stated,  left  the  kitchen, 
and  mounted  the  stairs  with  a  peculiarly  quick  light  tread 
which  meant  business  ;  for  the  fact  was  that  she  did  discern 
the  holding  out  of  Will's  hand,  and  was  taking  a  sudden 
sheer.  Nothing  but  the  sheer  was  quite  distinct  to  her 
mind  as  she  set  her  foot  upon  the  stair  ;  but  before  she 
reached  the  top  landing  place  she  knew  what  she  would 
do.  Her  mother  was  not  going  to  church,  Will  Flandin 
was  ;  and  the  plan,  she  saw,  was  fixed,  that  he  should  drive 
herself.  Her  mother  would  oblige  her  to  go  ;  or  else,  if 
she  made  a  determined  stand,  Will  on  the  other  hand 
would  not  go  ;  and  she  would  have  to  endure  him,  plati- 
tudes, blue  necktie,  cloves  and  all,  for  the  remainder  of  the 
morning.  Only  one  escape  was  left  her.  With  the  swift- 
ness and  accuracy  of  movement  which  is  possible  in  a 
moment  of  excitement  to  senses  and  faculties  habitually 
deft  and  true,  Diana  changed  her  dress,  put  on  the  grey, 
thick,  coarse  wrappings,  which  were  very  necessary  for  any 
one  going  sleigh-riding  in  Pleasant  Valley ;  took  her  hood  in 
her  hand,  and  slipped  down  the  stairs  as  noiselessly  as  she 
had  gone  up.  It  was  not  needful  that  she  should  go  through 
the  kitchen  where  her  mother  and  her  visiter  were  ;  there 
was  a  side  door  happily  ;  and  without  being  seen  or  heard, 
Diana  reached  the  barn. 

The  rest  was  easy.  Prince  was  fast  by  his  halter,  instead 
of  wandering  at  will  over  the  sunny  meadow ;  and  without 
any  delay  or  difficulty  Diana  got  his  harness  on  and  hitched 
him  to  the  small  cutter  which  was  wont  to  convey  herself 


21 8  DIANA. 

and  her  mother  to  church  and  wherever  else  they  wanted 
to  go  in  winter  time.  Only  Diana  carefully  took  the  precau- 
tion to  remove  the  sleigh  bells  from  the  rest  of  Prince's 
harness  ;  then  she  led  him  out  of  the  barn  where  she  had 
harnessed  him,  closed  the  barn  doors  securely  ;  remember- 
ing how  they  had  been  left  on  another  occasion,  mounted, 
and  drove  slowly  away.  It  had  been  a  dreamy  piece  of 
work  to  her  ;  for  it  had  so  fallen  out  that  she  had  never 
once  harnessed  Prince  again  since  that  June  day,  when  she 
indeed  did  not  harness  him,  but  had  been  about  it,  when 
somebody  else  had  taken  the  work  out  of  her  hand.  It 
was  very  bitter  to  Diana,  to  handle  the  bridle  and  the  traces 
that  he  had  handled  that  day;  she  did  it  with  fingers  that 
seemed  to  sting  with  pain  at  every  touch  ;  her  brain  got 
into  a  whirl ;  and  when  she  finally  drove  off,  it  was  rather 
instinctively  that  she  went  slowly  and  made  no  sound  ; 
for  Will  and  his  hopes  and  his  wooing  and  his  presence 
had  faded  out  of  her  imagination.  She  went  slowly,  until 
she,  also  instinctively,  knew  that  she  was  safe,  and  then 
still  she  went  slowly.  Prince  chose  his  own  gait.  Diana 
with  the  reins  slack  in  her  hand,  sat  still  and  thought. 
There  was  no  need  for  hurry  ;  it  was  not  near  church  time 
not  yet  even  church-going  time  •  Will  would  be  quiet  for  a 
while  yet,  before  it  would  be  necessary  to  make  any  hue 
and  cry  after  the  runaway  ;  and  she  and  Prince  would  be 
far  beyond  ken  by  that  time.  And  meanwhile  there  was 
something  soothing  in  the  mere  being  alone  under  the  wide 
grey  sky.  Nobody  to  watch  her,  nothing  to  exert  herself 
about ;  for  a  few  moments  in  her  life  Diana  could  be  still 
and  drift. 

Whither  ?  She  was  beginning  to  feel  that  the  chafing 
of  home,  her  mother's  driving  and  Will's  courting,  were 
becoming  intolerable.  Heart  and  brain  were  strained 


A    SNOWSTORM.  2IQ 

and  sore  ;  if  she  could  be  still  till  she  died,  Diana  felt  it  to 
be  the  utmost  limit  of  desirableness.  She  knew  she  was 
not  likely  to  die  soon ;  brain  and  nerve  might  be  strained, 
but  they  were  sound  and  whole ;  the  full  capacity  for  suf- 
fering, the  unimpaired  energy  for  doing,  were  hers  yet. 
And  stillness  was  not  likely  to  be  granted  her.  It  was 
inexpressibly  suitable  to  Diana's  mood  to  sit  quiet  in  the 
sleigh  and  let  Prince  walk,  and  feel  alone,  and  know  that 
no  one  could  disturb  her.  A  few  small  flakes  of  snow  were 
beginning  to  flit  aimlessly  about  j  their  soft  wavering  mo- 
tion suggested  nothing  ruder  than  that  same  purposeless 
drift  towards  which  Diana's  whole  soul  was  going  out  in 
yearning.  If  she  had  been  in  a  German  fairytale  the  snow- 
flakes  would  have  seemed  to  her  spirits  of  peace.  She 
welcomed  them.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  caught  two 
or  three,  and  then  brought  them  close  to  look  at  them. 
The  little  fair  crystals  lay  still  on  her  glove ;  it  was  too 
cold  for  them  to  melt.  Oh  to  be  like  that ! — thought  Diana, 
— cold  and  alone  !  But  she  was  in  no  wise  like  that,  but  a 
living  human  creature,  warm  at  heart  and  quick  in  brain  ; 
in  the  midst  of  humanity,  obliged  to  fight  out  or  watch 
through  the  life-battle  and  take  blows  and  wounds  as  they 
came.  Ah,  she  would  not  have  minded  the  blows  or  the 
wounds  ;  she  would  have  girded  herself  joyfully  for  the 
struggle,  were  it  twice  as  long  or  hard  ;  but  now, — there 
was  nothing  left  to  fight  for.  The  fight  looked  dreary. 
She  longed  to  creep  into  a  corner,  under  some  cover,  and 
get  rid  of  it  all.  No  cover  was  in  sight.  Diana  knew,  with 
the  subtle  instinct  of  power,  that  she  was  one  of  those  who 
must  stand  in  the  front  ranks  and  take  the  responsibility 
of  her  own  and  probably  of  others'  destinies.  She  could 
not  creep  into  a  corner  and  be  still ;  there  was  work  to  do. 
And  Diana  never  shirked  work.  Vaguely,  even  now,  as 


22O  DIANA. 

Prince  walked  along  and  she  was  revelling,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  loveliness  and  the  peace  of  momentary  immunity,  she 
began  to  look  at  the  question,  how  and  where  her  stand 
must  be  and  her  work  be  done.  Not  as  Will  Flandin's 
wife,  she  thought !  No,  she  could  never  be  that.  But  her 
mother  would  urge  and  press  it ;  how  much  worry  of  that 
sort  could  she  stand,  when  she  was  longing  for  rest? 
Would  her  mother's  persistence  conquer  in  the  end,  just 
because  her  own  spirit  was  gone  for  contending  ?  No  ; 
never !  Not  Will  Flandin,  if  she  died  for  it.  Anything 
else. 

The  truth  was,  the  girl's  life-hope  was  so  dead  within  her 
that  for  the  time  she  looked  upon  all  things  in  the  universe 
through  a  veil  of  unreality.  What  did  it  matter,  one  thing  or 
the  other  ?  what  did  it  signify  any  longer,  which  way  she  took 
through  the  wilderness  of  this  world  ?  Diana's  senses  were 
benumbed  ;  she  no  longer  recognized  the  forms  of  things 
nor  their  possible  hard  edges,  nor  the  perspectives  of  time. 
Life  seemed  unending  long,  it  is  true,  to  look  forward  to  ; 
but  she  saw  it,  not  in  perspective,  but  as  if  in  a  nightmare 
it  were  all  in  mass  pressing  upon  her  and  taking  away  her 
breath.  So  what  did  points  here  and  there  amount  to  ? 
What  did  it  matter  ?  any  more  than  this  snow  which  was 
beginning  to  come  down  so  fast. 

Fast  and  thick  ;  the  aimless  scattering  crystals  which 
had  come  fluttering  about  as  if  uncertain  about  reaching 
earth  at  all,  had  given  place  to  a  dense,  swift,  driving  storm. 
Without  much  wind  perceptible  yet,  the  snowfall  came  with 
a  steady  straight  drift  which  spoke  of  an  impelling  force 
somewhere,  might  it  be  only  the  weight  of  the  cloud  reser- 
voirs from  which  it  came.  It  came  in  a  way  that  could  no 
longer  be  ignored.  The  crystals  struck  Diana's  face  and 
hands  with  the  force  of  small  missiles.  But  just  now  she 


A   SNOWSTORM.  221 

had  been  going  through  a  grey  and  brown  lonely  landscape ; 
it  was  covered  up,  and  nothing  to  see  but  this  white  downfall. 
Even  the  nearest  outlines  were  hidden  ;  she  could  barely 
distinguish  the  fences  on  either  hand  of  her  road ; 
nothing  further  ;  trees  and  hills  were  all  swallowed  up,  and 
the  road  itself  was  not  discernible  at  a  very  few  paces  dis- 
tance. Indeed  it  was  not  too  easy  to  keep  her  eyes  open 
to  see  anything,  so  beat  the  crystals,  sharp  and  fast,  into 
her  face.  Diana  smiled  to  herself,  to  think  that  she  was 
safe  now  from  even  distant  pursuit ;  no  fear  that  Flandin 
would  by  and  by  come  up  with  her,  or  even  make  his  ap- 
pearance at  the  church  at  all  that  day  ;  the  storm  was  vio- 
lent enough  to  keep  any  one  from  venturing  out  of  doors, 
or  to  make  any  one  turn  back  to  his  house  who  had  already 
left  it.  Diana  had  no  thought  of  turning  back  ;  the  more 
impossible  the  storm  made  other  people's  travelling,  the 
better  it  was  for  hers.  Prince  knew  the  way  well  enough, 
and  could  go  to  church  like  a  Christian ;  she  left  the  way 
to  him  ;  and  enjoyed  the  strange  joy  of  being  alone,  beyond 
vision  or  pursuit,  set  aside  as  it  were  from  her  life  and 
life  surroundings  for  a  time.  What  did  she  care,  how  hard 
the  storm  beat  ?  to  the  rough  treatment  of  life  this  was  as 
the  touch  of  a  soft  feather.  Diana  welcomed  it ;  loved  the 
storm  ;  bent  her  head  to  shield  her  from  the  blast  of  it, 
and  went  on.  The  wind  began  to  make  itself  known  as 
one  of  the  forces  abroad,  but  she  did  not  mind  that  either,. 
Gusts  came  by  turns,  sweeping  the  snow  in  what  seemed  a 
solid  mass  upon  her  shoulder  and  side  face  ;  and  then,  in 
a  little  time  more,  there  was  no  question  of  gusts,  but  a 
steady  wild  fury  which  knew  no  intermission.  The  storm 
grew  tremendous,  and  everybody  in  Pleasant  Valley  was 
well  aware  that  such  storms  in  those  regions  did  not  go  as 
soon  as  they  came.  Diana  herself  began  to  feel  glad  that 


222  DIANA. 

she  must  be  near  her  stopping  place.  No  landmarks  what- 
ever were  visible,  but  she  thought  she  had  been  travelling 
long  enough,  even  at  Prince's  slow  rate,  to  put  most  of 
the  three  miles  behind  her  ;  and  she  grew  a  little  afraid 
lest  in  the  white  darkness  she  might  miss  the  little  church  ; 
once  past  it,  though  never  so  little,  and  looking  back  would 
be  in  vain.  It  was  a  question  if  she  would  not  pass  it 
even  with  her  best  endeavour.  In  her  preoccupation  it  had 
never  once  occurred  to  Diana  to  speculate  on  what  she 
would  find  at  the  church,  if  she  reached  it ;  and  now  she 
had  but  one  thought,  not  to  miss  reaching  it.  She  had 
some  anxious  minutes  of  watching,  for  her  rate  of  travel- 
ling had  been  slower  than  she  knew,  and  there  was  a  good 
piece  of  a  mile  still  between  her  and  the  place  when  she 
began  to  look  for  it.  Now  she  eyed  with  greatest  care  the 
road  and  the  fences,  when  she  could  see  the  latter,  and 
indeed  it  is  poetical  to  speak  of  her  seeing  the  road,  for 
the  tracks  were  all  covered  up.  But  at  last  Diana  recog- 
nized a  break  in  the  fence  at  her  left ;  checked  Prince, 
turned  his  head  carefully  in  that  direction,  found  he  seemed 
to  think  it  all  right,  and  presently  saw  just  before  her  the 
long  low  shed  in  which  the  country  people  were  wont  to 
tie  their  horses  for  the  time  of  divine  service.  Prince  went 
straight  to  his  accustomed  place. 

Diana  got  out.  There  was  no  need  to  tie  Prince  to- 
day. The  usual  equine  sense  of  expediency  would  be 
quite  sufficient  to  keep  any  horse  under  cover.  She  left 
the  sleigh,  and  groped  her  way ;  truly  it  was  not  easy  to  keep 
on  her  feet,  the  wind  blew  so  ;  till  she  saw  the  little  white 
church  just  before  her.  There  was  not  a  foot  track  on  the 
snow  which  covered  the  steps  leading  to  the  door.  But 
the  wind  and  the  snow  would  cover  up  or  blow  away  any 
such  tracks  in  very  short  time,  she  reflected ; — yet, — what  if 


A    SNOWSTORM.  223 

the  door  were  locked  and  nobody  there  !  One  moment  her 
heart  stood  still.  No  ;  things  were  better  than  that ;  the 
door  yielded  to  her  hand.  Diana  went  in,  welcomed  by 
the  warm  atmosphere  which  contrasted  so  pleasantly  with 
the  wind  and  the  snow  flakes,  shut  the  door,  shook  herself, 
and  opened  one  of  the  inner  doors  which  led  into  the  au- 
dience room  of  the  building. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

OUT     OF     HUMDRUM. 

WARM,  how  good  and  warm !  but  empty.  Perfectly 
empty.  Perfectly  still.  Empty  pews,  and  empty  pulpit ; 
nobody,  not  a  head,  visible  anywhere.  Not  a  breath  to  be 
heard.  The  place  was  awful ;  it  was  like  the  ghost  of  a 
church  ;  all  the  life  out  of  it.  But  how  then  came  it  to  be 
warm  ?  Somebody  must  have  made  the  fires  ;  where  was 
somebody  gone  ?  And  had  none  of  all  the  congregation 
come  to  church  that  day  ?  was  it  too  bad  for  everybody  ? 
Diana  began  to  wake  up  to  facts,  as  she  heard  the  blast 
drive  against  the  windows  and  listened  to  the  swirl  of  it 
round  the  house.  And  how  was  she  going  to  get  home, 
if  it  was  so  bad  as  that  ?  At  any  rate,  here  was  still  soli- 
tude and  quiet  and  freedom  ;  she  could  get  warm  and  en- 
joy it  for  awhile,  and  let  Prince  rest ;  she  would  not  be  in 
a  hurry.  She  turned  to  go  to  one  of  the  corners  of  the 
room,  where  the  stoves  were  screened  off  by  high  screens 
in  the  interest  of  the  neighbouring  pews ;  and  then,  just  at 
the  corner  of  the  screen,  from  where  he  had  been  watching 
her,  she  saw  Mr.  Masters.  Diana  did  not  know  whether 
to  be  sorry  or  glad.  On  the  whole,  she  rather  thought  she 
was  glad ;  the  church  was  eerie,  all  alone. 

'  Mr.  Masters  ! — I  thought  nobody  was  here.' 
'  I  thought  nobody  was  going  to  be  here.     Good  morn- 
ing !     Who  else  is  coming  ? ' 


OUT   OF   HUMDRUM.  225 

'  Who  else  ?     Nobody,  I  guess.' 

'  How  am  I  to  understand  that  ? ' 

'Just  so,' — said  Diana,  coming  up  to  the  stove  and 
putting  her  fingers  out  towards  the  warmth. 

'  Where  is  the  other  half  of  your  family  ? ' 

'  I  left  mother  at  home.' 

'  You  came  alone  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  came  alone.'  Diana  began  to  wonder  a  little 
at  the  situation  in  which  she  found  herself,  and  to  revolve 
in  her  mind  how  she  could  make  use  of  it. 

'  Miss  Diana,  you  have  dared  what  no  one  else  has 
dared.' 

'  It  was  not  daring,'  said  the  girl.  *  I  did  not  think 
much  of  the  storm,  till  I  was  so  far  on  the  way  that  it  was 
as  easy  to  "come  on  as  to  go  back.' 

A  light  rejoinder,  which  would  have  been  given  to  any- 
body else,  was  checked  on  Mr.  Masters'  lips  by  the  ab- 
stracted, apart  air  with  which  these  words  were  spoken. 
He  gave  one  or  two  inquisitive  glances  at  the  speaker  and 
was  silent.  Diana  roused  herself. 

'  Has  nobody  at  all  come  to  church  ? ' 

'  Nobody  but  Mr.  St.  Clair ' — (he  was  the  old  sexton.) 
'  And  he  has  such  a  bad  cold  that  I  took  pity  on  him  and 
sent  him  home.  I  promised  him  I  would  shut  up  the 
church  for  him — when  it  was  necessary  to  leave  it.  He 
was  in  no  condition  to  be  preached  to.' 

He  half  expected  Diana  would  propose  the  shutting 
up  of  the  church  at  once,  and  the  ensuing  return  home  of 
the  two  people  there  ;  but  instead  of  that,  she  drew  up  a 
stool  and  sat  down. 

'  You  will  not  be  able  to  preach  to-day,'  she  remarked. 

'  Not  to  much  of  a  congregation,'  said  the  minister.  '  I 
will  do  my  best  with  what  I  have.' 


226  DIANA. 

'  Are  you  going  to  preach  to  me  ? '  said  Diana  with  a 
ghost  of  a  smile. 

'  If  you  demand  it !     You  have  an  undoubted  right.' 

Diana  sat  silent.  The  warmth  of  the  room  was  very 
pleasant.  Also  the  security.  Not  from  the  storm,  which 
howled  and  dashed  upon  the  windows  and  raged  round  the 
building  and  the  world  generally;  but  from  that  other 
storm  and  whirl  of  life.  Diana  did  not  want  just  yet  to  be 
at  home.  Furthermore  she  had  a  dim  notion  of  using  her 
opportunity.  She  thought  how  she  could  do  it ;  and  the 
minister,  standing  by,  watched  her,  with  some  secret  anx- 
iety but  an  extremely  calm  exterior. 

'  You  must  give  me  the  text,  Miss  Diana,'  he  ventured 
presently. 

Diana  sat  still,  musing.  'Mr.  Masters,'  she  said  at 
last,  ysry  slowly,  in  order  that  the  composure  of  it  might 
be  perfect, — '  will  you  tell  me,  what  is  the  good  of  life  ? ' 

'  To  yourself,  you  mean  ? ' 

'  Yes.     For  me — or  for  anybody.' 

'  I  should  say  briefly,  that  God  makes  all  his  creatures 
to  be  happy.' 

'  Happy  ! '  echoed  Diana  with  more  sharpness  of  accent 
than  she  knew. 

1  Yes.' 

'But  Mr.  Masters,  suppose — suppose  that  is  impos- 
sible ? ' 

'It  never  is  impossible.' 

'  That  sounds — like — mockery,'  said  Diana.  '  Only 
you  never  do  say  mocking  things.' 

'  I  do  not  about  this.' 

'  But  Mr.  Masters  ! — surely  there  are  a  great  many  peo- 
ple in  the  world  that  are  not  happy.' 

'  A  sorrowful  truth.  How  comes  Diana  Starling  to  be 
one  of  them  ? ' 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  22/ 

And  saying  this,  the  minister  himself  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  down.  The  question  was  daring,  but  the  whole 
way  and  manner  of  the  man  were  so  quiet  and  gentle,  so 
sympathizing  and  firm  at  once,  that  it  would  have  lured  a 
bird  off  its  nest ;  much  more  the  brooding  reserve  from  a 
heart  it  is  not  nursing  but  killing.  Diana  looked  at  him, 
met  the  wise,  kind,  grave  eye  she  had  learned  long  ago  to 
trust, — and  broke  down.  All  of  a  sudden  ;  she  had  not 
dreamed  she  was  in  any  danger  •  she  was  as  much  sur- 
prised as  he  was  ;  but  that  helped  nothing.  Diana  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

He  looked  very  much  concerned.  Wisely,  however,  he 
kept  perfectly  quiet  and  let  the  storm  pass  ;  the  little  inner 
storm  which  caused  the  outer  violence  of  winds  and  clouds 
to  be  for  the  time  forgotten.  Diana  sobbed  bitterly. 
When  after  a  few  minutes  she  checked  herself,  the  minister 
went  off  and  brought  her  a  glass  of  water.  Diana  lifted 
her  flushed  face  and  drank  it,  making  no  word  of  excuse  or 
apology.  As  he  took  the  glass  back,  Mr.  Masters  spoke 
in  the  tone  of  mixed  sympathy  and  authority,  it  was  a 
winning  kind  of  authority,  which  was  peculiar  to  him. 

'  Now,  Miss  Diana,  what  is  it  ?  ' 

But  there  was  a  long  pause.  Diana  was  regaining  self- 
command  and  searching  for  words.  The  minister  was  pa- 
tient and  waited. 

'  There  seems  to  be  nothing  left  in  life,'  she  said  at  last. 

'  Except  duty,  you  mean  ? ' 

'  There  is  enough  of  that ;  common  sort  of  duties.  But 
duty  is  very  cold  and  bare  if  it  is  all  alone,  Mr.  Masters.' 

'  Undoubtedly  true.  But  who  has  told  you  that  your 
life  must  be  filled  with  only  common  sorts  of  duties  ? ', 

'  It  has  nothing  else,'  said  Diana  despondently.  '  And 
I  look  forward  and  see  nothing  else.  And  when  I  think 


228  DIANA. 

of  living  on  and  on  so — my  brain  almost  turns  ;  and  I 
wonder  why  I  was  made.  ' 

'  Not  to  live  so.  Our  Maker  meant  none  of  us  to  live 
a  humdrum  life  ;  don't  you  know,  we  were  intended  for 
"  glory,  honour,  and  immortality  ?  "  ' 

'  How  can  one  get  out  of  humdrum  ? '  Diana  asked 
disconsolately. 

'  By  living  to  God.' 

'  I  don't  understand  you.' 

'  You  understand  how  a  woman  can  live  to  a  beloved 
human  creature,  doing  everything  in  the  thought  and  the 
joy  of  her  affection.' 

Was  he  probing  her  secret  ?  Diana's  breath  came  short ; 
she  sat  with  eyes  cast  down  and  a  feeling  of  oppression ; 
growing  pale  with  her  pain.  But  she  said,  '  Well  ? 

'  Let  it  be  God,  instead  of  a  fellow  creature.  Your  life 
will  have  no  humdrum  then.' 

'  But — one  can  only  love  what  one  knows,'  said  Diana, 
speaking  carefully. 

'  Precisely.  And  the  Bible  cry  to  men  is,  that  they 
would  "  know  the  Lord."  For  want  of  that  knowledge,  all 
goes  wild.' 

'  Do  you  mean,  that  that  will  take  the  place  of  every- 
thing else  ? '  said  Diana,  lifting  her  weary  eyes  to  him. 
They  were  strong,  beautiful  eyes  too,  but  the  light  of  hope 
was  gone,  and  all  sparkle  of  pleasure,  out  of  them.  The 
look  struck  to  the  minister's  heart.  He  answered  however 
with  no  change  of  tone. 

'  I  mean,  that  it  more  than  takes  the  place  of  everything 
else.' 

'  Not  replace  what  is  lost,'  said  Diana  sadly. 

'  More  than  replace  it,  even  when  one  has  lost  all.' 

'  That  can't  be  !  —  that  must  be  impossible,  some- 
times,' said  Diana.  '  I  don't  believe  you  know.' 


OUT   OF    HUMDRUM.  22Q 

'  Yes,  I  do,' — said  the  minister  gravely. 
People  would  not  be  human.' 

'  Very  human — tenderly  human.  Do  you  really  think, 
Miss  Diana,  that  He  who  made  our  hearts,  made  them 
larger  than  he  himself  can  fill  ? ' 

Diana  sat  silent  a  while,  and  the  minister  stood  consid- 
ering her  ;  his  heart  strained  with  sympathy,  and  longing 
to  give  her  help,  and  at  the  same  time  doubting  how  far 
he  might  or  dared  venture.  Diana  on  her  part  fearing  to 
shew  too  much,  but  remembering  also  that  this  chance 
might  never  repeat  itself.  The  fear  of  losing  it  began  to 
overtop  all  other  fear.  So  she  began  again. 

But,  Mr  Masters — this  that  you  speak  of — I  haven't  got 
it ;  and  I  don't  understand  it.  What  shall  I  do  ?  ' 

'  Get  it.' 

'  How  ? ' 

*  Seek  it  in  the  appointed  way.' 
1  What  is  that  ? ' 

*  Jesus  said,  "  He  that  hath  my   commandments  and 
keepeth  them,  he  it  is  that  loveth  me  ;  and  he  that  loveth 
me  shall  be  loved  of  my  Father ;  and  I  will  love  him,  and 
•will  manifest  myself  to  him" ' 

1  But  I  do  not  love  him.' 

1  Then  pray  as  Moses  prayed, —  "  I  beseech  thee,  shew 
me  thy  glory  !  " ' 

Diana's  head  sank  a  little.  '  I  have  no  heart  to  give 
to  anything  !  '  she  confessed. 

What  has  become  of  it  ? '  asked  the  minister  daringly. 

'Don't  people  sometimes  lose  heart  without  any  par 
ticular  reason  ?  ' 

'  No ;  never.' 

'  I  have  reason,  though,'  said  Diana. 

1  I  see  that.' 


230  DIANA. 

'  You  do  not  know —  ?  '  said  Diana,  facing  him  with 
a  startled  movement. 

'  No.     I  know  nothing,  Miss  Diana.    I  guess.' 
\  She  sat  with  her  face  turned  from  him  for  a  while  ;  then, 
perhaps  reminded  by  the  blast  of  wind  and  snow  which  at 
the  moment  came  round  the  house  furiously  and  beat  on 
the  windows,  she  went  on  hastily. 

'  You  wonder  to  see  me  here  ;  but  I  ran  away  from 
home  ;  and  I  can't  bear  to  go  back.' 

1  Why  ? ' 

'  Mr.  Masters,  mother  wants  me  to  '  —  Diana  hesitated, 
—  '  marry  a  rich  man.' 

The  minister  was  silent. 

'  He  is  there  all  the  while — I  mean,  very  often  ;  he  has 
not  spoken  out  yet,  but  mother  has  ;  and  she  favours  him 
all  she  can. 

'  You  do  not  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  I  could  never  see  him  again  !  '  sighed  Diana. 

'  You  can  send  him  away,  I  should  think.' 

'  I  can't,  till  he  asks  my  leave  to  stay.  And  I  am  so 
tired.  He  came  to  take  me  to  church  this  morning  ;  and 
I  ran  away  before  it  was  time  to  go.' 

%  '  You   cannot  be  disposed   of  against  your  will,  Miss 
Diana.' 

'  I  seem  to  have  so  little  will  now.  Sometimes  I  am 
almost  ready  to  be  afraid  mother  and  he  together  will  tire 
me  out.  Nothing  seems  to  matter  any  more.' 

'  That  would  be  a  great  mistake.' 

'  Yes  ! ' — said  Diana,  getting  up  from  her  chair  and 
looking  out  towards  the  storm  with  a  despairing  face  ;  — 
'  people  make  mistakes  sometimes.  Mr.  Masters,  you  must 
think  me  very  strange — but  I  trust  you — and  I  wanted  help 
so  much — ' 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  23! 

'  And  I  have  not  given  you  any.' 

'  You  would  if  you  could.' 

'  And  I  will  if  I  can.  I  have  thought  of  more  than  I 
have  spoken.  When  can  I  see  you  again,  to  consult  fur- 
ther ?  It  must  be  alone.' 

'I  don't  know.  This  is  my  chance.  Tell  me  now. 
What  have  you  thought  of  ? ' 

'I  never  speak  about  business  on  Sunday,'  said  the 
minister,  meeting  Diana's  frank  eyes  with  a  slight  smile 
which  was  very  far  from  merriment. 

'  Is  this  business  ? ' 

'  Partly  of  that  character.' 

'  I  don't  know  then,'  said  Diana.  '  We  must  take  our 
chance.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Masters.' 

'  May  I  ask  what  for  ?  ' 

'  For  your  kindness.' 

'  I  should  like  to  be  kind  to  you,'  said  he.  '  Now,  the 
present  practical  question,  which  cannot  be  put  off,  Miss 
Diana,  is — how  are  you  going  to  get  home  ? ' 

'  And  you.' 

'  That  is  a  secondary  matter  and  easily  disposed  of.  I 
live  comparatively  near  by.  It  is  out  of  the  question  that 
you  should  drive  three  miles  in  this  storm.' 

Both  stood  and  listened  to  the  blast  for  a  few  minutes. 
There  was  no  denying  the  truth  of  his  words.  In  fact,  it 
would  be  a  doubtful  thing  for  a  strong  man  to  venture 
himself  and  his  beast  out  in  the  fury  of  the  whirling  wind 
and  snow  ;  for  a  woman,  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Mr. 
Masters  considered.  For  him  to  take  Diana,  supposing 
the  storm  would  let  him.  to  the  house  of  some  near  neigh- 
bour, would  be  awkward  enough  and  give  lise  to  endless 
and  boundless  town  talk.  To  carry  her  home,  three  miles, 
was  as  he  had  said,  out  of  the  question.  To  wait,  both  of 


232  DIANA. 

them,  in  the  church,  for  the  storm's  abating,  was  again 
not  a  desirable  measure,  and  would  furnish  even  richer 
food  for  the  tongues  of  the  parish  than  the  other  alterna- 
tives would.  To  leave  her,  or  for  her  to  leave  him,  were 
alike  impossible.  Mr.  Masters  was  not  a  man  who  usually 
hesitated  long  about  any  course  of  action  ;  but  he  was 
puzzled  to-day.  He  walked  up  and  down  in  one  of  the 
aisles,  thinking ;  while  Diana  resumed  her  seat  by  the 
stove.  Her  simplicity  and  independence  of  character  did 
not  allow  her  to  greatly  care  about  the  matter  ;  though  she 
too  knew  very  well  what  disagreeable  things  would  be  said, 
at  home  and  elsewhere,  and  what  a  handle  would  be  made 
of  the  affair,  both  against  her  and  against  the  minister. 
For  his  sake,  she  was  sorry  ;  for  herself,  what  did  anything 
much  matter  ?  This  storm  was  an  exceptional  one  ;  such 
as  comes  once  in  a  year  perhaps,  or  perhaps  not  in  several 
years.  The  wind  had  risen  to  a  tempest ;  the  snow  drove 
thick  before  it,  whirling  in  the  eddies  of  the  gust,  so  as  to 
come  in  every  possible  direction  and  seemingly  caught  up 
again  before  it  could  reach  a  resting  place.  The  fury  of 
its  assault  upon  the  church  windows  made  one  thing  at 
least  certain  ;  it  would  be  a  mad  proceeding  now  to  ven- 
ture out  into  it,  for  a  woman  or  a  man  either.  And  it 
was  very  cold ;  though  happily  the  stoves  had  been  so 
effectually  fired  up,  that  the  little  meeting  house  was  still 
quite  comfortable.  Yet  the  minister  walked  and  walked. 
Diana  almost  forgot  him,  and  sat  lost  in  her  own  thoughts. 
The  lull  was  soothing.  The  solitude  was  comforting.  The 
storm  which  put  a  barrier  between  her  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  was  a  temporary  friend,  Diana  could  find  it  in 
her  heart  to  wish  it  were  more  than  temporary.  To  be  out 
of  the  old  grooves  of  pain  is  something,  until  the  new 
ones  are  worn.  To  forsake  scenes  and  surroundings  which 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  233 

know  all  our  secrets,  is  sometimes  to  escape  beneficially 
their  persistent  reminders  of  everything  one  would  like  to 
forget.  Diana  felt  like  a  child  that  has  run  away  from 
school  and  so  for  the  present  got  rid  of  its  lessons  ;  and 
sat  in  a  quiet  sort  of  dull  content,  listening  now  and  then  to 
the  roar  of  the  blast  and  hugging  herself  that  she  had  run 
away  in  time.  Half  an  hour  more,  and  it  would  have  been 
too  late,  and  Will  and  her  mother  would  have  been  her 
companions  for  all  day.  How  about  to-morrow  ?  Diana 
shuddered.  And  how  about  all  the  to-morrows  that 
stretched  along  in  dreary  perspective  before  her  ?  Would 
they  also,  all  of  them,  hold  nothing  but  those  same  two 
persons  ?  Nothing  but  an  endless  vista  of  butter  making 
and  pork  killing  on  one  hand,  and  hair-oil  scented  with 
cloves  on  the  other  ?  It  would  be  better  far  to  die,  if  she 
could  die  ;  but  Diana  knew  she  could  not. 

'  Well ! '  said  the  voice  of  the  minister  suddenly  beside 
her, — '  what  do  you  think  of  the  prospect  ? ' 

Diana's  eyes,  as  they  were  lifted  to  his  face,  were  full 
of  so  blank  a  life-prospect,  that  his  own  face  changed 
and  a  cloud  came  over  its  brightness. 

'  We  can't  get  away,'  he  said.  '  Not  at  present,  unless  we 
were  gulls ;  and  gulls  never  fly  in  these  regions.  Do  you 
mind  waiting  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  mind  it  at  all,'  said  Diana ;  '  except,  for  you. 
I  am  sorry  for  you  to  have  to  stay  here  with  me.' 

'  There  isn't  anybody  I  would  rather  stay  with,'  said 
the  minister,  half  humourously.  '  Now  can  you  return  the 
compliment  ? ' 

'  Yes  indeed ! '  said  Diana  earnestly.  *  There  isn't 
anybody  else  I  would  half  as  lieve  stay  with.' 

'  Apparently  you  have  some  confidence  in  me,'  he  said 
in  the  same  tone. 


234  DIANA. 

'  I  have  confidence  in  nobody  else,'  said  Diana  sadly. 
'  I  know  you  would  help  me  if  you  could.' 

They  were  silent  a  few  minutes  after  that,  and  when 
Mr.  Masters  began  to  speak  again  it  was  in  a  different 
tone  ;  a  gentle  grave  tone  of  business. 

'  I  have  been  doing  some  hard  thinking,'  he  said,  '  while 
I  have  been  walking  yonder  ;  and  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  present  is  an  exceptional  case  and  an  ex- 
ceptional time.  Ordinarily  I  do  not  let  business — private 
business — come  into  Sunday.  But  we  are  brought  here 
together,  and  detained  here,  and  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  is  the  business  I  ought  to  do.  I  have  only 
one  parishioner  on  my  hands  to-day,'  he  went  on  with  a 
slight  smile,  '  and  I  may  as  well  attend  to  her.  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you  my  plan.  I  sh^ll  not  startle  you  ?  Just  now 
you  allowed  that  you  had  confidence  in  me  ? ' 

'  Yes.     I  will  try  to  do  whatever  you  say  I  ought  to  do.' 

'That  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he  gravely,  '  but  I  will  unfold 
to  you  my  plan.  You  have  trust  in  me.  So  have  I  in  you, 
Diana ;  but  I  have  more.  So  much  more,  that  it  would 
make  me  happy  to  go  through  my  life  with  you.  I  know,' 
— he  said  as  he  met  her  startled  look  up  to  him, — '  I  know 
you  do  not  love  me  ;  I  know  that ; — but  you  trust  me  ;  and 
I  have  love  enough  for  two.  That  has  been  true  a  great 
while.  Suppose  you  come  to  me  and  let  me  take  care  of 
you.  Can  you  trust  me  to  that  extent  ? ' 

Diana's  lips  had  grown  white  with  fear  and  astonish- 
ment. '  You  do  not  know ! ' — she  gasped.  But  his  an- 
swer was  steady  and  sweet. 

'  I  think  I  do.' 

1  All  ? ' 

*  All  I  need  to  know.' 

'  It  would  be  very,  very  wrong  to  you,  Mr.  Masters  ! ' 
said  Diana  hiding  her  face. 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  235 

'  No,'  he  answered  in  the  same  gentle  way.  '  To  give 
me  what  I  long  for  ? ' 

'  But — but — I  have  nothing  to  give  in  return,'  she  said, 
answering  not  the  form  of  his  words  but  the  reality  under 
them. 

'  I  will  take  my  risk  of  that.  I  told  you,  I  have  enough 
for  both.  And  I  might  add,  to  last  out  our  lives.  I  only 
want  to  have  the  privilege  of  taking  care  of  you.' 

'  My  heart  is  dead  ! ' — cried  Diana  piteously. 

'  Mine  isn't.  And  yours  is  not.  It  is  only  sick,  but 
not  unto  death ;  and  I  want  to  shelter  and  nurse  it  to 
health  again.  May  I  ? ' 

'  You  cannot,'  said  Diana.  '  I  am  not  worth  anybody's 
looking  at  any  more.  There  is  no  life  left  in  me.  I  am 
not  good  enough  for  you,  Mr.  Masters.  You  ought  to 
have  a  whole  heart  and  a  large  one  in  return  for  your 
own.' 

'  I  do  not  want  any  return,'  said  he.  '  Not  at  present, 
beyond  that  trust  which  you  so  kindly  have  given  me.  And 
if  I  never  have  any  more,  I  will  be  content,  Diana,  to  be 
allowed  to  do  all  the  giving  myself.  You  must  spend  your 
life  somewhere.  Can  you  spend  it  any  where  better,  than 
at  my  side  ? ' 

'  No, — '  Diana  breathed  rather  than  spoke. 

'Then  it's  a  bargain  ? '  said  he,  taking  her  hand.  Diana 
did  not  withdraw  it,  and  stooping  down  he  touched  his  lips 
gently  to  hers.  This  was  so  unlike  one  of  Evan's  kisses 
that  it  did  not  even  remind  Diana  of  them.  She  sat  dazed 
and  stunned,  hardly  knowing  how  she  felt,  only  bewil- 
dered ;  yet  dimly  conscious  that  she  was  offered  a  shelter, 
and  a  lot  which  if  she  had  never  known  Evan  she  would 
have  esteemed  the  highest  possible.  An  empty  lot  now, 
as  any  one  must  be ;  an  unequal  exchange  for  Mr.  Mas- 


236  DIANA. 

ters ;  an  unfair  transaction  ;  at  the  same  time,  for  her,  a 
hiding  place  from  the  world's  buffetings.  She  would  es- 
cape so  from  her  mother's  exactions  and  rule  ;  from  young 
Flandin's  following  and  pretensions  ;  from  the  pointed 
finger  of  gossip.  True,  that  finger  had  never  been  levelled 
at  her,  not  yet ;  but  every  one  who  has  a  secret  sore  spot 
knows  the  dread  of  its  being  discovered  and  touched.  And 
Diana  had  never  been  wont  to  mind  her  mother's  exactions, 
or  to  rebel  against  her  rule  ;  but  lately,  for  a  year  past, 
without  knowing  or  guessing  the  wrong  of  which  her 
mother  had  been  guilty,  Diana  had  been  conscious  of  an 
underlying  want  of  harmony  somewhere.  She  did  not 
know  where  it  was  ;  it  was  in  the  air ;  for  nature's  subtle 
sympathies  find  their  way  and  know  their  ground  far  be- 
yond the  sphere  of  sense  or  reason.  Something  adverse 
and  something  sinister  she  had  vaguely  felt  in  her  mother's 
manner,  without  having  the  least  clue  to  any  possible  cause 
or  motive.  Suspicion  was  the  last  thing  to  occur  to  Diana's 
nature ;  so  she  suspected  nothing ;  nevertheless  felt  the 
grating  and  now  and  then  the  jar  of  their  two  spirits  one 
against  the  other.  It  was  dimly  connected  with  Evan  too, 
in  her  mind,  without  knowing  why  ;  she  thought,  blaming 
herself  for  the  thought,  that  Mrs.  Starling  would  not  have 
been  so  determinately  eager  to  get  her  married  to  Will 
Flandin  if  Evan  Knowlton  had  never  been  thought  to  fan- 
cy her.  This  was  a  perfectly  unreasoning  conclusion  in 
Diana's  mind ;  she  could  give  no  account  of  it ;  but  as 
little  could  she  get  rid  of  it;  and  it  made  her  mother's 
ways  lately  hard  to  bear.  The  minister,  she  knew  instinct- 
ively, would  not  let  a  rough  wind  blow  on  her  face  ;  at  his 
side  neither  criticism  nor  any  sort  of  human  annoyance 
could  reach  her ;  she  would  have  only  her  own  deep  heart 
sorrow  to  bear  on  to  the  end.  But  what  sort  of  justice 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  23/ 

was  this  towards  him  ?  Diana  lifted  her  head,  which  had 
been  sunk  in  musing,  and  looked  round.  She  had  heard 
nothing  for  awhile  ;  now  the  swirl  and  rush  of  the  storm 
were  the  first  thing  that  struck  her  senses ;  and  the  first 
thought,  that  no  getting  away  was  possible  yet ;  then  she 
glanced  at  Mr.  Masters.  He  was  there  near  her,  just  as 
usual,  looking  at  her  quietly. 

'  Mr.  Masters,'  she  burst  forth,  '  you  are  very  good  ! ' 

'  That  is  right,'  he  said  with  a  sort  of  dry  comicality 
which  belonged  to  him,  '  I  hope  you  will  never  change  your 
opinion.' 

'  But,'  said  Diana,  withdrawing  her  eyes  in  some  con- 
fusion, '  I  think  I  am  not.  I  think  I  am  doing  wrong.' 

'  In  what  ? ' 

'  In  letting  you  say  what  you  said  a  little  while  ago. 
You  have  a  heart,  and  a  big  one.  I  have  not  any  heart  at 
all.  I  can't  give  you  what  you  would  give  me  ;  I  haven't 
got  it  to  give.  I  never  shall  have  anything  to  give.' 

'The  case  being  so  as  you  put  it,'  said  the  minister 
quite  quietly,  '  what  then  ?  You  cannot  change  the  facts.  I 
cannot  take  back  what  I  have  given  ;  it  was  given  long 
ago,  Diana,  and  remains  yours.  The  least  you  can  do,  is 
to  let  me  have  what  is  left  of  you  and  take  care  of  it. 
While  I  live,  I  will  do  that,  and  ask  no  reward.' 

'  You  will  get  tired  of  it,' — said  Diana  with  her  lip  trem- 
bling. 

'  Will  I  ? '  said  he  taking  her  hand.  And  he  added  no 
more,  but  through  the  gentle,  almost  careless  intonation 
Diana  felt  and  knew  the  very  truth  ;  that  he  never  would. 
She  left  her  hand  in  his  clasp ;  that  too  was  gentle  and 
firm,  like  the  man  ;  he  seemed  a  tower  of  strength  to  Diana. 
If  only  she  could  have  loved  him.  Yet  she  thought  she 
was  glad  that  he  loved  her.  He  was  something  to  lean 


238  DIANA. 

upon ;  some  one  who  would  be  able  to  give  help.  They 
sat  so,  hand  in  hand,  for  a  while,  the  storm  roaring  against 
the  windows  and  howling  round  the  building. 

'  Don't  you  think,'  the  minister  began  again,  with  a  ten- 
der light  accent, — '  it  will  be  part  of  my  permanent  duty  to 
preach  to  you  ? ' 

'  I  dare  say,    I  am  sure  I  want  it  enough/  said  Diana. 

'  Is  not  this  a  good  opportunity  ?  ' 

'  I  suppose  it  is.     We  cannot  get  away.' 

'  Never  mind  ;  the  wind  will  go  down  by  and  by.  It 
has  been  blowing  on  purpose  to  keep  us  here.  Diana,  do 
you  think  a  good  God  made  any  of  his  creatures  to  be  un- 
happy ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Masters.    He  lets  them  be  unhappy.' 

'  It  is  not  his  will.' 

'  But  he  takes  away  what  would  make  them  happy  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  think  would  do  that  ? ' 

'  I  suppose  it  is  one  thing  with  one  person,  and  another 
with  another.' 

'  True  ;  but  take  an  instance.' 

'  It  is  mother's  happiness  to  have  her  farm  and  her 
dairy  and  her  house  go  just  right.' 

'  Is  she  happy  if  it  does  ? ' 

'  She  is  very  uncomfortable  if  it  don't.' 

'  That  is  not  my  question,'  said  the  minister  smiling. 
'  Happiness  is  not  a  thing  that  comes  and  goes,  with  the 
weather,  or  the  crops,  or  the  state  of  the  market ; — nor  even 
with  the  life  and  death  and  affection  of  those  we  love.' 

'  I  thought  it  did — '  said  Diana  rather  faintly. 

'  In  that  case  it  would  be  a  changeable,  insecure  thing  ; 
and  being  that,  it  would  cease  to  be  happiness.' 

'  Yes.  I  thought  human  happiness  was  changeable  and 
uncertain.' 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  239 

'  Do  you  not  feel  that  such  conditions  would  spoil  it? 
No  ;  God  loves  us  better  than  that.' 

'  But  Mr.  Masters,'  said  Dian-a  in  some  surprise,  '  no- 
body in  this  world  can  be  sure  of  keeping  what  he  likes  ? 

'  Except  one  thing.' 

'  What  can  that  be?' 

'  Did  you  never  see  anybody  who  was  happy  inde- 
pendent of  circumstances  ? ' 

Diana  reflected.     '  I  think  Mother  Bartlett  is.' 

'  I  think  so  too.' 

'  But  she  is  the  only  person  of  whom  that  is  true,  in  all 
Pleasant  Valley.' 

'  How  comes  she  to  be  an  exception  ? ' 

Diana  reflected  again,  but  this  time  without  finding  an 
answer. 

'  Isn't  it,  that  she  has  set  her  heart  on  what  cannot  fail 
her  nor  be  insufficient  for  her  ? ' 

'  Religion,  you  mean.' 

'  I  do  not  mean  religion.' 

'  What  then  ? '  Diana  asked  in  new  surprise. 

'  I  mean — Christ.' 

'But — isn't  that  the  same  thing?' 

'  Not  exactly.     Christ  is  a  person.' 

'  Yes— but— ' 

'  And  fie  it  is  that  can  make  happy  those  who  know  him. 
Do  you  remember,  he  said,  "  He  that  cometh  to  me  shall 
never  hunger,  and  he  that  believeth  on  me  shall  never 
thirst  ? "  ' 

Looking  up  at  the  speaker  and  following  his  words,  they 
somehow  struck  Diana  rather  hard.  Her  lip  suddenly 
trembled  and  she  looked  down. 

'  You  do  not  understand  it,'  said  the  minister,  '  but  you 
must  believe  it.  Poor  hungry  lamb,  seeking  pasture  where 
there  is  none, — where  it  is  withered, — come  to  Christ ! ' 


24O  DIANA. 

'  Do  you  mean/  said  Diana  struggling  for  voice  and 
self-command,  but  unable  to  look  up,  for  the  minister's 
hand  was  on  her  shoulder  and  his  words  had  been  very 
tenderly  spoken, — '  do  you  mean,  that  when  everything  is 
withered,  he  can  make  it  green  again  ? ' 

The  minister  answered  in  the  words  of  David,  which 
were  the  words  of  the  Lord — ' "  He  shall  be  as  the  light  of 
the  morning,  when  the  sun  riseth,  even  a  morning  without 
clouds  ;  as  the  tender  grass  springing  out  of  the  earth  by 
clear  shining  after  rain."  ' 

Diana  bent  her  head  lower.  Could  such  refreshment 
and  renewal  of  her  own  wasted  nature  ever  come  to  pass  ? 
She  did  not  believe  it ;  yet  perhaps  there  was  life  yet  at 
the  roots  of  the  grass  which  scented  the  rain.  The  words 
swept  over  as  the  breath  of  the  south  wind. 

' "  The  light  of  a  morning  without  clouds  " — she  re. 
peated  when  she  could  speak. 

'  Christ  is  all  that,  to  those  who  know  him,'  the  minister 
said. 

'  Then  I  do  not  know  him,'  said  Diana. 

'  Did  you  think  you  did  ? ' 

'  But  how  can  one  know  him,  Mr.  Masters  ? ' 

'  There  is  only  one  way.  It  is  said,  "  God  who  created 
the  light  out  of  darkness,  hath  shined  in  our  hearts,  to  give 
the  light  of  the  glory  of  the  knowledge  of  Christ."  ' 

1  How  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  tell.  As  the  sun  rises  over  the  hills,  and 
suddenly  the  gold  of  it  is  upon  everything,  and  the  warmth 
of  it.' 

<  When  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  that  either,'  said  Mr.  Masters,  gently 
touching  Diana's  brow  as  one  touches  a  child's,  with  cares- 
sing fingers.  '  He  says, — "  ye  shall  find  me  when  ye  shall 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  24! 

search  for  me  with  all  your  heart." — "  If  thou  criest  after 
knowledge  and  lif  test  up  thy  voice  for  understanding ;  if  thou 
seekest  her  as  silver,  and  searchestfor  her  as  for  hid  treas- 
ures ;  then  shalt  thou  understand  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and 
find  the  knowledge  of  God"  ' 

Diana  sat  still  awhile  and  neither  of  them  spoke ;  then 
she  said,  speaking  more  lightly. 

'I  think  you  have  preached  a  beautiful  sermon,  Mr. 
Masters.' 

'  It's  a  beautiful  sermon,'  assented  the  minister  ;  '  but 
how  much  effect  will  it  have  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Diana.  '  I  don't  seem  to  have  energy 
enough  to  take  hold  of  anything.'  Then  after  a  little  she 
added — '  But  if  anybody  can  help  me  I  am  sure  it  is  you.' 

'  We  will  stand  by  one  another  then,'  said  he,  '  and  do 
the  best  we  can.' 

Diana  did  not  make  any  denial  of  this  conclusion  ;  and 
they  sat  still  without  more  words,  for  some  time  ;  each  busied 
with  his  own  separate  train  of  musings.  Then  Diana  felt 
a  little  shiver  of  cold  beginning  to  creep  over  her ;  and 
Mr.  Masters  roused  himself. 

'  This  is  getting  serious  !  '  said  he  looking  at  his  watch. 
<  What  o'clock  do  you  think  it  is  ?  One,  and  after.  Am  I 
to  make  up  the  fires  again  ?  We  cannot  stir  at  present.' 

Neither,  it  was  found,  could  he  make  up  the  fires.  For 
the  coal  bin  was  in  the  cellar  or  underground  vault,  to 
which  the  entrance  was  from  the  outside  ;  and  looking  from 
the  window,  Mr,  Masters  saw  that  the  snow  had  drifted  on 
that  side  to  the  height  of  a  man,  covering  the  low  door 
entirely.  Hours  of  labour  would  be  required  to  clear 
away  the  snow  enough  to  give  access  to  the  coal ;  and  the 
minister  had  not  even  a  shovel.  At  the  same  time  the 
fires  were  going  down,  and  the  room  was  beginning  to  get 
chilly  under  the  power  of  the  searching  wind  which  found  its 
16 


242  DIANA. 

way  in  by  many  entrances.  The  only  resource  was  to  walk. 
Mr.  Masters  gave  Diana  his  arm  and  she  accepted  it,  and 
together  they  paced  up  and  down  the  aisle.  •  It  was  a 
strange  walk  to  Diana  ;  her  companion  was  rather  silent, 
speaking  only  a  few  words  now  and  then  ;  and  it  occurred 
to  her  to  wonder  whether  this,  her  first  walk  with  him,  was 
to  be  a  likeness  of  the  whole  ;  a  progress  through  chilly 
and  empty  space.  Diana  was  not -what  may  be  called  an 
imaginative  person,  but  a  thought  of  this  kind  came  over 
her.  It  did  not  make  her  change  her  mind  at  all  respect- 
ing the  agreement  she  had  entered  into;  if  it  were  to  be 
so,  better  she  should  find  herself  at  his  side,  she  thought, 
than  anywhere  else.  She  was  even  glad,  in  a  dull  sort  of 
Avay,  that  Mr.  Masters  should  be  pleased ;  pleasure  for 
her  was  gone  out  of  the  world.  Honour  him  she  could, 
and  did,  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart ;  but  that  was  all. 
It  was  well  perhaps  for  her  composure  that  whatever  pleas- 
ure her  companion  might  feel  in  their  new  relations,  he  did 
not  make  the  feeling  obtrusively  prominent.  He  was  just 
his  usual  self,  with  a  slight  confidence  in  his  manner  to  her 
which  had  not  appeared  before. 

So  they  walked. 

'Diana,'  said  Mr.  Masters  suddenly,  '  have  you  brought 
no  lunch  with  you  ? ' 

'  I  forgot  it.  At  least, — I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
out  of  the  house  without  being  seen,  I  didn't  care  about 
anything  else.  If  I  had  gone  to  the  pantry  they  would 
have  found  out  what  I  was  doing.' 

'  And  I  brought  nothing  to-day,  of  all  days.  I  am  sorry, 
for  your  sake.' 

'  I  don't  mind  it,'  said  Diana.     '  I  don't  feel  it.' 

Nor  I, — but  that  proves  nothing.  This  won't  do.  It  is 
two  o'clock.  We  must  get  away.  It  will  be  growing  dark 
in  a  little  while  more.  The  days  are  just  at  the  shortest.' 


OUT    OF    HUMDRUM.  243 

'  I  think  the  storm  isn't  quite  so  bad  as  it  was,'  said 
Diana. 

They  stood  still  and  listened.  It  beat  and  blew,  and 
the  snow  came  thick  ;  still  the  exceeding  fury  of  the  blast 
seemed  to  be  lessened. 

'  We'll  give  it  a  quarter  of  an  hour  more,'  said  the  min- 
ister. '  Diana — we  have  had  preaching,  but  we  have  had 
no  praying.' 

She  assented  submissively,  to  his  look  as  well  as  his 
words,  and  they  knelt  down  together  in  the  chancel.  Mr. 
Masters  prayed,  not  very  long,  but  a  prayer  full  of  the 
sweetness  and  the  confidence  and  the  strength,  of  a  child 
of  God  who  is  at  home  in  his  Father's  presence  ;  full  of 
tenderness  and  sympathy  for  her.  Diana's  mind  went 
through  a  series  of  experiences  in  the  course  of  that  short 
prayer.  The  sweetness  and  the  confidence  of  it  touched 
her  first,  with  the  sense  of  contrast,  and  wrung  tears  from 
her  that  were  bitter ;  then  the  speaker  got  beyond  her 
depth,  into  regions  of  feeling  where  she  could  not  follow 
him  nor  quite  understand,  but  that,  she  knew,  was  only 
because  he  was  at  home  where  she  was  so  much  a  stranger  ; 
and  her  thoughts  made  a  leap  to  the  admiration  of  him, 
and  then  to  the  useless  consideration,  how  happy  she  might 
have  been  with  this  man,  had  not  Evan  come  between. 
Why  had  he  come,  just  to  win  her  and  prove  himself  un- 
worthy of  her  ?  But  it  was  done,  and  not  to  be  undone. 
Evan  had  her  heart,  worthy  or  unworthy ;  she  could  not 
take  it  back ;  there  was  nothing  left  for  her  but  to  be  a 
cold  shadow  walking  beside  this  good  man  who  was  so 
full  of  all  gentle  and  noble  affections.  Well,  she  was  glad, 
since  he  wanted  her,  that  she  might  lead  her  colourless  ex- 
istence by  his  side.  That  was  the  last  feeling  with  which 
she  rose  from  her  knees. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SETTLED 

IT  was  a  very  wild  storm  yet,  through  which  Mr.  Mas- 
ters drove  Diana  home.  Still  the  wind  blew  hard,  and 
the  snow  came  driving  and  beating  down  upon  their 
shoulders  and  faces  in  thick  white  masses  ;  and  the  drifts 
had  piled  up  in  some  places  very  high.  More  than  once 
the  sleigh,  Prince  and  all,  was  near  being  lodged  in  a 
snow-bank  from  which  the  getting  free  would  have  been  a 
work  of  time  ;  Mr.  Masters  had  to  get  out  and  do  some 
rather  complicated  engineering  ;  and  withal  through  the 
thick  and  heavy  snow-fall  it  was  difficult  to  see  what  they 
were  coming  to.  Patience  and  coolness  and  good  driving 
got  the  better  of  dangers  however,  and  slowly  the  way  was 
put  behind  them.  They  met  nobody. 

'  Mr.  Masters,'  said  Diana  suddenly,  '  you  will  have  to 
stay  at  our  house  to-night.  You  can  never  get  back.' 

'  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Starling  will  let  me  go,'  said  the 
minister. 

Diana  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  understand  this. 
It  struck  a  sort  of  chill  to  her,  that  he  was  intending  at 
once  to  proclaim  their  new  relations  to  each  other ;  yet 
she  could  find  nothing  to  object,  and  indeed  she  did  not 
wish  to  object. 

'  Mother  will  not  be  pleased/  she  ventured  after  a 
pause. 

244 


SETTLED.  245 

'  No,  I  do  not  expect  it.  We  have  got  to  face  that. 
But  she  is  a  wise  woman,  and  will  know  how  to  accommo- 
date herself  to  things  when  she  knows  she  can't  help  it, 
I  will  put  Prince  up  and  give  him  some  supper,  and  then 
we  will  see.' 

Diana  accordingly  went  in  alone.  But  as  it  happened, 
Mrs.  Starling  was  busied  with  some  affairs  in  the  outer 
kitchen ;  and  Diana  passed  through  and  got  up  to  her  own 
room  without  any  encounter.  She  was  glad.  Encounters 
were  not  in  her  line.  She  was  somewhat  leisurely  there- 
fore in  taking  off  her  wrappings  and  changing  her  dress. 
And  as  the  minister  was  on  the  other  hand  as  soon 
done  with  his  ministrations  to  Prince  as  circumstances  and 
the  snow  permitted,  it  fell  out  that  they  re-entered  the 
kitchen  almost  at  the  same  moment,  though  by  different 
doors.  It  was  the  lean-to  kitchen,  the  only  place  where 
fire  was  kept  on  Sunday,  and  indeed  that  was  the  usual 
winter  dwelling-room  ;  a  little  outer  kitchen  serving  for  all 
the  dirty  work.  It  was  in  what  I  should  call  dreary  Sun- 
day order ;  which  means,  order  without  life.  The  very 
chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  say  forlornly  that  they  had 
nothing  to  do.  Not  so  much  as  an  open  book  proclaimed 
that  the  mistress  of  the  place  was  any  better  off;  however, 
she  had  other  resources ;  for  even  as  the  minister  came  in 
from  the  snow,  and  Diana  from  up  stairs,  Mrs.  Starling 
herself  made  her  appearance  from  the  outer  kitchen  with 
a  pan  of  potatoes  in  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Starling  liked  neither  to  be  surprised,  nor  to  seem 
so.  Moreover,  from  the  outer  kitchen  door  she  had  seen 
Prince  and  the  sleigh  going  to  the  barn,  and  seen  too  who 
was  driving  him.  With  the  cunning  of  an  Indian  she  had 
made  a  sudden  tremendous  leap  to  conclusions  ;  how  ar- 
rived at,  I  cannot  say ;  there  is  a  faculty  in  some  natures 


246  DIANA. 

that  is  very  like  a  power  of  intuition.  So  she  came  in 
now  with  a  manner  that  was  undeclarative  of  anything  but 
grimness  ;  gave  no  sign  of  either  surprise  or  curiosity  ; 
vouchsafed  the  minister  only  a  scant  little  nod  of  welcome, 
and  to  Diana  scarce  a  look ;  and  set  her  pan  of  potatoes 
on  the  table,  while  she  went  into  the  pantry  for  a  knife. 

'  Do  you  want  those  peeled  mother  ? '    Diana  asked. 

'  Must  have  something  for  supper,  I  suppose.' 

'  Shall  I  do  it  ? ' 

'  No.    I  guess  you've  done  enough  for  one  day.' 

'  I  have,'  said  Mr.  Masters.  '  And  if  you  had  driven 
these  three  miles  in  the  snow,  you  would  know  it.  May  I 
have  some  supper,  Mrs.  Starling  ? ' 

'  There'll  be  enough,  I  guess,'  said  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  with  her  knife  flying  round  the  potato  in  hand  in  a 
way  that  shewed  both  practice  and  energy.  Then  presently, 
with  a  scarce  perceptible  glance  up  at  her  daughter,  she 
added, 

'  Where  have  you  been  ? ' 

'  To  church,  mother.' 

'  To  church  ! ' — scornfully.     '  What  did  you  do  there  ? ' 

'  She  heard  preaching,'  said  the  minister,  in  that  very 
quiet  and  composed  way  of  his,  which  it  was  difficult  to 
fight  against.  Few  people  ever  tried  ;  if  any  one  could,  it 
was  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  I  guess  there  warn't  many  that  had  the  privilege  ? ' 
she  said  inquiringly. 

'  Not  many,'  said  the  minister.  '  I  never  had  a  smaller 
audience — in  church — to  preach  to.' 

'  Folks  had  better  be  at  home,  such  a  day,  and  preach 
to  themselves.' 

'  I  quite  agree  with  you.  So  I  brought  Diana  back  as 
soon  as  I  could.  But  we  have  been  two  hours  on  the  way.' 


SETTLED.  247 

Mrs.  Starling's  knife  flew  round  the  potatoes ;  her 
tongue  was  silent.  Diana  began  to  set  the  table.  Sitting 
by  the  corner  of  the  fire  to  dry  the  wet  spots  on  his  clothes, 
the  minister  watched  her.  And  Mrs.  Starling,  without 
looking,  watched  them  both ;  and  at  last,  having  finished  her 
potatoes,  seized  the  dish  and  went  off  with  it ;  no  doubt  to 
cook  the  supper,  for  savoury  fumes  soon  came  stealing  in. 
Diana  made  coffee,  not  without  a  strange  back  look  to  a 
certain  stormy  September  night  when  she  had  made  it  for 
some  one  else.  It  was  December  now ;  a  December  which 
no  spring  would  follow  ;  so  what  mattered  anything,  coffee 
or  the  rest  ?  If  there  were  any  blessing  left  for  her  in  the 
world,  she  believed  it  would  be 'under  Mr.  Masters'  protec- 
tion and  in  his  goodness.  She  felt  dull  and  in  a  dream, 
but  she  believed  that. 

The  three  had  supper  alone.  Conversation,  as  far  as 
Mrs.  Starling  was  concerned,  went  on  the  pattern  that  has 
been  given.  Mr.  Masters  was  at  the  whole  expense 
of  the  entertainment,  mentally  ;  and  he  talked  with  the  ease 
and  pleasantness  that  seemed  natural  to  him,  of  things  that 
could  not  help  interesting  the  others  ;  even  Diana  in  her 
deadness  of  heart,  even  Mrs.  Starling  in  her  perversity, 
pricked  up  their  ears  and  listened.  I  don't  believe  either 
he  even  found  it  a  difficult  effort ;  nothing  ever  seemed  diffi- 
cult to  Mr.  Masters  that  he  had  to  do ;  it  was  always  done 
so  graciously  and  as  if  he  were  enjoying  it  himself.  So  no 
doubt  he  was.  Certainly  this  evening  ;  though  Mrs.  Star- 
ling did  not  speak  many  words  and  Diana  spoke  none.  So 
supper  was  finished  and  the  mistress  and  her  guest  moved 
their  chairs  to  the  fire,  while  Diana  busied  herself  in  put- 
ting up  the  things,  going  in  and  out  from  the  pantry. 

'You'll  have  to  keep  me  to-night,  Mrs.  Starling,'  said 
the  minister. 


248  DIANA. 

'  I  knew  that  when  I  saw  you  come  in,'  responded  the 
lady,  not  over  graciously. 

'  I  am  not  going  to  receive  hospitality  under  false  pre- 
tences,' though  said  the  minister.  '  If  I  rob,  I  won't  steal. 
Mrs.  Starling,  Diana  and  I  have  come  to  an  agreement.' 

'  I  knew  that  too,'  returned  the  lady  defiantly. 

'According  to  which  agreement,'  pursued  the  other 
without  change  of  a  hair,  '  I  am  coming  again  some  other 
time,  to  take  her  away,  out  of  your  care  into  mine.' 

'There  go  two  words  to  that  bargain,' — said  Mrs. 
Starling  after  a  half  minute's  pause. 

'  Two  words  have  been  spoken  ;  mine  and  her's.  Now 
we  want  yours.' 

'  Diana's  got  to  take  care  of  me.' 

'  Does  that  mean  that  she  is  never  to  marry?' 

'  It  don't  mean  anything  ridiculous,'  said  Mrs.  Star- 
ling ;  '  so  it  don't  mean  that.' 

'  I  should  not  like  to  say  anything  ridiculous.  Then, 
if  she  may  marry,  it  only  remains  that  she  and  you  should 
be  suited.  Do  you  object  to  me  as  a  son-in-law  ? ' 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  the  impression  of  the  man- 
ner, winning,  half  humourous,  half  dry,  supremely  careless 
and  confident,  in  which  all  this  was  said  on  the  minister's 
part.  It  was  something  almost  impossible  at  the  moment 
to  withstand,  and  it  fidgetted  Mrs.  Starling  to  be  under 
the  power  of  it.  Her  grudge  against  the  minister  was 
even  increased  by  it,  and  yet  she  could  not  give  vent  to  the 
feeling. 

'  I'm  not  called  upon  to  make  objections  against  you 
in  any  way,'  she  answered  rather  vaguely. 

'  That  means,  of  course,  that  you  have  no  objections  to 
make  ? ' 

'  I  don't  make  any,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  shortly. 


SETTLED.  249 

'  I  must  be  content  with  that,'  said  Mr.  Masters  smiling. 
'  Diana,  your  mother  makes  no  objections.'  And  rising, 
he  went  and  gravely  kissed  her. 

I  do  not  know  what  tied  Mrs.  Starling's  tongue.  She 
sat  before  the  fire  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  in  an  inward 
fury  of  dull  displeasure ;  she  had  untold  objections  to  this 
arrangement ;  and  yet,  though  she  knew  she  must  speak 
now  or  never,  she  could  not  speak.  Whether  it  were  the 
spell  of  the  minister's  manner,  which,  as  I  said,  worked  its 
charm  upon  her  as  it  did  upon  others  ;  whether  it  were  the 
prick  of  conscience,  warning  her  that  she  had  interfered 
once  too  often  already  in  her  daughter's  life  affairs  ;  or 
whether  finally  she  had  an  instinctive  sense  that  things 
were  gone  too  far  for  her  hindering  hand ;  she  fumed  in 
secret,  and  did  nothing.  She  was  a  woman  of  sense  ;  she 
knew  that  if  a  man  like  Mr.  Masters  loved  her  daughter, 
and  had  got  her  daughter's  good-will,  it  would  be  an  ill 
waste  of  strength  on  her  part  to  try  to  break  the  arrange- 
ment. It  might  be  done  ;  but  it  would  not  be  worth  the 
scandal  and  the  confusion.  And  she  was  not  sure  that  it 
could  be  done. 

So  she  sat  chewing  the  cud  of  her  mortification  and 
ire,  giving  little  heed  to  what  words  passed  between  the 
others.  It  had  come  to  this  !  She  had  schemed,  she  had 
put  a  violent  hand  upon  Diana's  fate,  to  turn  it  her  own 
way,  and  now  this  was  the  way  it  had  gone  !  All  her  wrong 
deeds  for  nothing !  She  had  purposed,  as  she  said,  that 
Diana  should  take  care  of  her ;  therefore  Diana  should  not 
marry  any  poor  and  proud  young  officer,  nor .  any  officer 
at  all,  to  carry  her  away  beyond  reach  and  into  a  sphere 
beyond  and  above  the  sphere  of  her  mother.  No,  Diana 
must  marry  a  rich  young  farmer  ;  Will  Flandih  would  just 
do ;  a  man  who  would  not  dislike  or  be  anywise  averse  to 


250  DIANA. 

receive  such  a  mother-in-law  into  his  house,  but  reckon  it 
an  added  advantage.  Then  her  home  would  be  secure, 
and  her  continued  rule  ;  and  ruling  was  as  necessary  to 
Mrs.  Starling  as  eating.  She  would  have  a  larger  house 
and  business  to  manage,  and  withal  need  not  do  herself 
more  than. she  chose  ;  having  Diana,  she  would  be  sure  of 
everything  else  she  wanted.  Now  she  had  lost  Diana. 
And  only  to  a  poor  parson  when  all  was  done.  Would  it 
have  been  better  to  let  her  marry  the  officer  ?  For  Mrs. 
Starling  had  a  shrewd  guess  that  such  would  have  been  the 
issue  of  things  if  she  had  let  them  alone.  Diana  could 
not  so  have  been  more  out  of  her  power  or  out  of 
her  sphere  ;  for  Mrs.  Starling  had  a  certain  assured  con- 
sciousness that  she  would  not  '  fit '  in  the  minister's  family, 
and  that,  gentle  as  he  was,  he  would  rule  his  house  and 
his  wife  himself.  She  sat  brooding,  hardly  hearing  what 
was  said  by  either  of  the  others  :  and  indeed  the  discourse 
was  not  very  lively ;  till  Mr.  Masters  rose  and  bade  them 
good  night.  And  then  Mrs.  Starling  still  went  on  musing. 
Why  had  she  not  interfered  at  the  right  moment,  to  put  a 
stop  to  this  affair  ?  She  had  let  the  moment  go,  and  the 
thought  vexed  her  ;  and  her  mood  was  not  at  all  sweetened 
by  the  lurking  doubt  whether  she  could  have  stopped  it  if 
she  had  tried.  Mrs.  Starling  could  not  abide  to  meet  with 
her  match,  and  sorely  hated  her  match  when  she  found  it. 
What  if  she  were  to  tell  Diana  of  those  letters  of  Evan  ? 
But  then  Diana  would  be  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with 
him.  Better  keep  her  in  the  village  perhaps.  Mrs.  Star- 
ling grew  more  and  more  impatient. 

'  Diana,  you  are  a  big  fool  ! '  she  burst  out. 

Diana  at  that  moment  thought  not.  She  did  not  answer. 
Both  were  sitting  before  the  wide  fireplace,  and  Diana  had 
not  moved  since  Mr.  Masters  left  them. 


SETTLED.  251 

'  What  sort  of  a  life  do  you  expect  you  are  going  to 
have  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  mother.' 

'  You,  who  might  marry  the  richest  man  in  town  ! — And 
live  in  plenty,  and  have  just  your  own  way,  and  everything 
you  want !  You  are  a  fool  I  Do  you  know  what  it  means,  to 
be  a  poor  minister's  wife  ? ' 

'  I  shall  know,  I  suppose.  That  is,  if  Mr.  Masters  is 
poor.  I  don't  know  whether  he  is  or  not.' 

'  He  is  of  course  !     They  all  are.' 

'Well,  mother.  You  have  taught  me  how  to  keep 
house  on  a  little.' 

'  Yes,  you  and  me  ;  that's  one  thing.  It's  another  thing 
when  you  have  a  shiftless  man  hanging  round,  and  a  dozen 
children  or  so,  and  expected  to  be  civil  to  all  the  world. 
They  always  have  a  house  full  of  children,  and  they  are  all 
shiftless.' 

'  Who,  mother  ? ' 

'  Poor  ministers.' 

'  Father  hadn't — and  wasn't.' 

'  He  was  as  shiftless  a  man  as  ever  wore  shoe-leather ; 
he  wasn't  a  bit  of  help  to  a  woman.  All  he  cared  for  was 
to  lose  his  time  in  his  books  ;  and  that's  the  way  this  man 
'11  do,  and  leave  you  to  take  the  brunt  of  everything.  Your 
time  '11  go  in  cookin'  and  mendin'  and  washin'  up  ;  and 
you'll  have  to  be  at  everybody's  beck  and  call  at  the  end  o' 
that.  If  there's"  anything  /  hate,  it's  to  be  in  the  kitchen 
and  parlour  both  at  the  same  time.' 

Diana  was  silent. 

'  You  might  have  lived  like  a  queen.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  live  like  a  queen.' 

'  You  might  have  had  your  own  way,  Diana.' 

'  I  don't  care  about  having  my  own  way.' 


252  DIANA. 

'  I  wish  you  would  care,  then,  or  had  a  speck  of  spirit. 
What's  life  good  for  ? ' 

'  I  wish  I  knew ' — said  Diana  wearily,  as  she  rose  and 
set  back  her  chair. 

'  You  never  will  know,  in  that  man's  house.  I  do  think, 
ministers  are  the  meanest  lot  o'  folks  there  is ;  and  that 
you  should  go  and  take  one  of  them  ! ' — 

'  It  is  the  other  way,  mother  ;  he  has  taken  me,'  said 
Diana,  half  laughing  at  what  seemed  to  her  the  dispropor- 
tion between  her  mother's  passion  and  the  occasion  for  it. 

'  You  were  a  fool  to  let  him.' 

'  I  don't  think  so.' 

'  You'll  be  sorry  yet.' 

'•  Why  ? ' 

'They're  a  shiftless  lot,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  rather 
evasively,  '  the  whole  of  'em.  And  this  one  has  a  way  of 
holding  his  own  in  other  folks'  houses,  that  is  intolerable 
to  me  !  I  never  liked  him,  not  from  the  very  first.' 

'  I  always  liked  him,'  said  Diana  simply;  and  she  went 
off  to  her  room.  She  had  not  expected  that  her  mother 
would  favour  the  arrangement ;  on  the  contrary  ;  and  it 
had  all  been  settled  much  more  easily  than  she  had  looked 
for. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

UNSETTLED. 

So  things  were  settled,  and  Mrs.  Starling  made  no  at- 
tempt to  unsettle  them  ;  on  the  other  hand  she  fell  into  a 
condition  of  permanent  unrest  which  I  do  not  know  how  to 
characterize.  It  was  not  ill  humour  exactly  ;  it  was  not 
displeasure ;  or  if  so,  it  was  displeasure  at  herself,  but  it  was 
contrary  to  all  Mrs.  Starling's  principles  to  admit  that,  and 
she  never  admitted  it.  Her  farm  servant,  Josh,  described 
her  as  being  always  now  in  an  '  aggravated  '  state ;  and 
Diana  found  her  society  very  uncomfortable.  There  was 
never  a  word  spoken  pleasantly,  by  any  chance,  about  any- 
thing ;  good  was  not  commended  and  ill  was*  not  deplored; 
but  both,  good  and  ill,  were  taken  up  in  the  same  sharp, 
acrid,cynical  tone,  or  treated  with  the  like  restless  mockery. 
Mrs.  Starling  found  no  fault  with  Diana,  other  than  by 
this  bitter  manner  of  handling  every  subject  that  came  up  ; 
at  the  same  time  she  made  the  little  house  where  they 
lived  together  a  place  of  thunderous  atmosphere  where  it 
was  impossible  to  draw  breath  freely  and  peacefully.  They 
were  very  much  shut  up  to  one  another,  too.  That  Sunday 
storm  in  December  had  been  followed  by  successive  falls 
of  snow,  so  deep  that  the  ways  were  encumbered,  and 
travelling  more  difficult  than  usual  in  Pleasant  Valley  even 
in  winter.  There  was  very  little  getting  about  between 
the  neighbours'  houses  ;  and  the  people  let  their  social 
qualities  wait  for  spring  and  summer  to  develope  them- 

253 


254  DIANA. 

selves.  Diana  and  her  mother  scarcely  saw  anybody.  Nick 
Boddington  at  rare  intervals  looked  in.  Joe  Bartlett  once 
or  twice  came  with  a  message  from  his  mother ;  once  Diana 
had  gone  down  to  see  her.  Even  Mr.  Masters  made  his 
appearance  at  the  little  brown  farmhouse  less  frequently 
than  might  have  been  supposed  ;  for  in  truth  Mrs.  Star- 
ling's presence  made  his  visits  rather  unsatisfactory  ;  and 
beside  the  two  kitchen  fires,  there  was  none  other  in  the 
house  to  which  Diana  and  he  could  withdraw  and  see  each 
other  alone.  So  he  came  only  now  and  then,  and  generally 
did  not  stay  very  long. 

To  Diana,  all  this  while,  the  coming  or  the  going,  the 
solitude  or  the  company,  even  the  good  or  ill  humours  of 
her  mother,  seemed  to  be  of  little  importance.  She  lived 
her  own  shut-up,  deadened,  secret  life  through  it  all,  and 
had  no  nerves  of  sensation  near  enough  to  the  surface  to 
be  affected  much  by  what  went  on  outside  of  her.  What 
though  her  mother  was  all  the  while  in  a  rasped  sort  of 
state  ?  it  could  not  rasp  Diana  ;  she  seemed  to  wear  a  coat 
of  mail.  Neighbours  ?  no  neighbours  were  anything  to  her 
one  way  or  another ;  if  she  could  be  said  to  like  anything, 
it  was  to  be  quite  alone  and  see  and  hear  nobody.  Her 
marriage  she  looked  at  in  the  same  dull  way;  with  a  thought, 
so  far  as  she  gave  it  a  thought,  that  in  the  minister's  house 
her  life  would  be  more  quiet,  and  peace  and  goodwill  would 
replace  the  eager  disquiet  around  her  which,  without 
minding  it,  Diana  yet  perceived.  More  quiet  and  better, 
she  hoped  her  life  would  be  ;  her  life  and  herself ;  she 
thought  the  minister  was  getting  a  bad  bargain  of  it,  but 
since  it  was  his  pleasure  she  thought  it  was  a  good  thing 
for  her ;  every  time  she  met  the  gentle  kind  eyes  and  felt 
the  warm  clasp  of  his  hand,  Diana  repeated  the  assurance 
to  herself.  The  girl  had  sunk  again  into  mental  torpor  ; 


UNSETTLED.  255 

she  did  not  see  nor  hear  nor  feel ;  she  lived  along  a  me- 
chanical sort  of  life,  having  relapsed  into  her  former 
stunned  condition.  Not  crushed ;  there  was  too  much  of 
Diana's  nature  for  one  blow  or  perhaps  many  blows  to  ef- 
fect that ;  not  beaten  down,  like  some  other  characters  ;  she 
went  on  her  way  upright,  alert  and  strong,  doing  and  ex- 
pecting to  do  the  work  of  life  to  its  utmost  measure  ;  all 
the  same,  walking  as  a  ghost  might  walk  through  the  scenes 
of  his  former  existence  ;  with  no  longer  any  natural  condi- 
tions to  put  her  at  one  with  them,  and  only  conscious  of 
her  dead  heart.  This  state  of  things  had  given  way  in  the 
fall  to  a  few  months  of  incessant  and  very  live  pain  ;  with 
her  betrothal  to  the  minister  Diana  had  sunk  again  into  the 
dulness  of  apathy.  But  with  a  constitution  mental  and 
physical  like  her's,  so  full  of  sound  life-blood,  so  true  and 
strong,  in  the  nature  of  things  this  state  of  apathetic  sleep 
could  not  last  for  ever.  And  the  time  of  final  waking 
came. 

The  winter  had  dragged  its  length  away.  Spring  had 
come,  with  its  renewal  of  all  the  farm  and  household 
activities.  Diana  stood  up  to  her  work  and  did  it,  day  by 
day,  with  faultless  accuracy,  with  blameless  diligence.  She 
was  too  useful  a  helper  not  to  be  missed  unwillingly  from 
any  household  that  had  once  known  her  ;  and  Mrs.  Star- 
ling's temper  did  not  improve.  It  had  been  arranged  that 
Diana's  marriage  should  take  place  about  the  first  of  June. 
Spring  work  over,  and  summer  going  on  its  orderly  way, 
she  could  be  easiest  spared  then,  she  thought ;  and  Mrs. 
Starling,  seeing  it  must  be,  made  no  particular  objection. 
Beyond  the  time,  nothing  had  been  talked  of  yet  concerning 
the  occasion.  So  it  was  a  hitherto  untouched  question, 
when  Mrs.  Starling  asked  her  daughter  one  day, — '  What 
sort  of  a  wedding  are  you  calculatin'  to  have  ? ' 


256  DIANA. 

'  What  sort  of  a  wedding  ?  I  don't  know,'  said  Diana. 
'  What  do  you  mean  by  a  wedding  ? ' 

'  The  thing  is,  what  you  mean  by  it.  Don't  be  a  baby, 
Diana  Starling  !  Do  you  mean  to  ask  your  friends  to  see 
you  married  ? ' 

'  I  don't  want  anybody,  I  am  sure,'  said  Diana.  '  And 
I  am  sure  Mr.  Masters  does  not  care.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  be  married  in  a  black  gown  ? ' 

'  Black  !  No  ;  but  I  do  not  care  what  kind  of  a  gown 
it  is,  further  than  that. 

'  I  don't  think  you  care  much  about  the  whole  thing,' 
said  Mrs.  Starling  looking  at  her.  '  If  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't 
be  married  just  to  please  somebody  else,  without  it  pleased 
myself  too.  That's  what  I  think.' 

Poor  Diana  thought  of  Mr.  Masters'  face  as  she  had 
seen  it  the  last  time ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  good  to  give 
somebody  else  pleasure,  even  if  pleasure  were  gone  and 
out  of  the  question  for  her.  This  view  of  the  question, 
naturally,  she  did  not  make  public. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  marry  this  man  for  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Starling,  standing  straight  up  (she  had  been  bending  over 
some  work)  and  looking  hard  at  her  daughter. 

'  I  hope  he'll  make  a  good  woman  of  me,'  Diana  said 
soberly. 

'  If  you  had  a  little  more  spunk,  you  might  make  a  good 
man  of  him  ;  but  you  aren't  the  woman  to  do  it.  He  wants 
his  pride  taken  down  a  bit.' 

'  But  what  about  the  day,  mother  ? '  said  Diana,  who 
preferred  not  to  discuss  this  subject. 

'  Well,  if  you  haven't  thought  of  it,  I  have  ;  and  I'm 
going  to  ask  all  the  folks  there  are  ;  and  we've  got  to  make 
a  spread  for  em,  Diana  Starling,  so  we  may  as  well  be 
about  it.' 


UNSETTLED.  257 

'  Already ! '  said  Diana.     '  It's  weeks  yet.' 
'  They'll  run  away,  you'll  find  ;  and  the  cake'll  be  better 
for  keepin'.     You  may  go  about  stonin'  the  fruit  as  soon 
as  you're  a  mind  to.' 

Diana  said  no  more,  but  stoned  her  raisins  and  picked 
over  her  currants  and  sliced  her  citron,  with  the  same  apa- 
thetic want  of  realization  which  lately  she  had  brought  to 
everything.  It  might  have  been  cake  for  anybody  else's 
wedding  that  she  was  getting  ready,  so  little  did  her  fingers 
recognize  the  relation  of  the  things  with  herself.  The 
cake  was  made  and  baked  and  iced  and  ornamented.  And 
then  Mrs.  Starling's  activities  went  on  to  other  items  of 
preparation.  Seeing  Diana  would  be  married,  she  meant 
it  should  be  done  in  a  way  the  countryside  would  not  for- 
get ;  neither  should  Mrs.  Flandin  make  mental  compari- 
sons, pityingly,  of  the  wedding  that  was  with  the  wedding 
that  would  have  been  with  her  son  for  the  bridegroom. 
Baking  and  boiling  and  roasting  and  jellying  went  on  in 
quantity,  for  Mrs.  Starling  was  a  great  cook,  and  could  do 
things  in  style  when  she  chose.  The  house  was  put  in 
order ;  fresh  curtains  hung  up,  and  the  handsomest  linen 
laid  out,  and  greens  and  flowers  employed  to  cover  and 
deck  the  severely  plain  walls  and  furniture.  One  thing 
more  Mrs.  Starling  wished  for  which  she  was  not  likely  to 
have  ;  the  presence  of  one  of  the  Elmfield  family  on  the 
occasion.  She  would  have  liked  some  one  of  them  to  be 
there,  in  order  that  sure  news  of  the  whole  might  go  to 
Evan  and  beyond  possibility  of  doubt ;  for  a  lurking  fear 
of  his  sudden  appearing  some  time  had  long  hidden  in 
Mrs.  Starling's  mind.  I  do  not  know  what  she  feared  in 
such  a  case.  Of  the  two,  Evan  was  hardly-more  distasteful 
to  her  as  a  son-in-law  than  the  minister  was  ;  though  it  is 
true  that  her  action  in  the  matter  of  burning  the  letters 
17 


258  DIANA. 

had  made  her  hate  the  man  she  had  injured.  This  feel- 
ing was  counterbalanced,  I  confess  by  another  feeling  of 
the  delight  it  would  be  to  see  Mr.  Masters  nonplussed  ;  but 
on  the  whole  she  preferred  that  Evan  should  keep  at  a 
distance. 

All  the  work  and  confusion  of  these  last  few  weeks 
claimed  Diana's  full  time  and  strength,  as  well  as  her 
mother's,  she  had  scarcely  a  minute  to  think  ;  and  that 
was  one  reason  no  doubt,  why  she  went  through  them  with 
such  unchanged  composure.  They  were  all  behind  her  at 
last.  Everything  was  in  order  and  readiness,  down  to  the 
smallest  particular,  and  it  was  with  a  dull  sense  of  this 
that  Diana  went  up  to  her  room  the  last  night  before  her 
wedding  day.  It  was  all  done,  and  the  time  was  all  gone. 
She  went  in  slowly  went  to  the  window,  opened  it  and 
sat  down  before  it.  June  had  come  again  ;  one  day  of 
June  was  passed,  and  to-morrow  would  be  the  second. 
Through  the  bustle  of  May,  Diana  had  hardly  given  a  look 
to  the  weather  or  a  thought  to  the  time  of  year ;  it  greeted 
her  now  at  her  window  like  a  dear  old  friend  that  she  had 
been  forgetting.  The  moon  about  an  hour  high  gave  a 
gentle  illumination  through  the  dewy  air,  revealing  plainly 
enough  the  level  meadows,  and  the  hills  which  made  their 
distant  bordering.  The  scent  of  roses  and  honeysuckles 
was  abroad  ;  just  under  Diana's  window  there  was  a  honey- 
suckle vine  in  full  blossom,  and  the  rich,  peculiar  fragrance 
came  in  heavily  laden  puffs  of  air  ;  the  softest  of  breezes 
brought  them,  stirring  the  little  leaves  lazily,  and  just 
touched  Diana's  face,  sweet  and  tender,  reminding,  caress- 
ing. Reminding  of  what  ?  For  it  began  to  stir  vaguely 
and  uneasily  in  Diana's  heart.  Things  not  thought  of  be- 
fore put  in  a  claim  to  be  looked  at.  This  her  home  and 
sanctuary  for  so  many  years,  it  was  to  be  hers  no  longer 


UNSETTLED.  259 

This  was  the  last  night  at  her  window,  by  her  honeysuckle 
vine.  She  would  not  have  another  evening  the  enjoyment 
of  her  wonted  favourite  view  over  the  fields  and  hills  ;  she 
had  done  with  all  that.  Other  scenes,  another  home, 
would  claim  her ;  and  then  slowly  rose  the  thought  that 
her  freedom  was  gone  ;  this  was  the  last  time  she  would 
belong  to  herself.  Oddly  enough,  nothing  of  all  this  had 
come  under  consideration  before.  Diana  had  been  stunned  ; 
she  had  believed  for  a  long  time  that  she  was  dead,  men- 
tally ;  she  had  been  as  it  were  in  a  slumber,  partly  of  hope- 
lessness, partly  of  preoccupation  ;  now  the  time  of  waking 
had  come  ;  and  the  hidden  life  in  her  stirred  and  rose 
and  shivered  with  the  consciousness  that  it  was  alive  and  in 
its  full  strength,  and  what  it  meant  for  it  to  be  alive  now.  As 
I  said,  Diana's  nature  was  too  sound  and  well  balanced  and 
strong  for  anything  to  crush  it  or  even  any  part  of  it ;  and 
now  she  knew  that  the  nerves  of  feeling  she  thought  Evan 
had  killed  for  ever,  were  all  astir  and  quivering  and  would 
never  be  fooled  into  slumbering  again.  I  cannot  tell  how 
all  this  dawned  and  broke  to  her  consciousness.  She  had 
sat  down  at  her  window  a  calm,  weary-hearted  girl,  placid, 
and  with  even  a  dull  sort  of  content  upon  her  ;  so  she  had 
sat  and  dreamed  awhile  ;  and  then,  June  and  moonlight, 
and  her  honeysuckle,  and  the  roses,  and  the  memory  of 
her  free  childish  days,  and  the  image  of  her  lost  lover,  and 
the  thought  of  where  she  was  standing,  by  degrees — how 
gently  they  did  it,  too, — roused  her  and  pricked  her  up  to 
the  consciousness  of  what  she  going  to  do.  What  was  she 
going  to  do  ?  Marry  a  man  who  had  no  real  place  in  her 
heart.  She  had  thought  it  did  not  matter ;  she  had  thought 
she  was  dead  ;  now  all  at  once  she  knew  that  she  was 
alive  in  every  fibre,  and  that  it  mattered  fearfully.  The 
idea  of  Mr.  Masters  stung  her,  not  as  novel  writers  say 


26O  DIANA. 

'  almost  to  madness,' — for  there  was  no  such  irregularity 
in  Diana's  round,  sound,  healthy  nature, — but  to  pain  that 
seemed  unbearable.  No  confusion  in  her  brain,  and  no 
dulness  now ;  on  the  contrary,  an  intense  consciousness 
of  all  that  her  position  involved.  She  had  made  a  mistake, 
like  many  another  ;  unlike  many,  she  had  found  it  out  early. 
She  was  going  to  marry  a  man  to  whom  she  had  no  love  to 
give  ;  and  she  knew  now  that  the  life  she  must  thenceforth 
lead  would  be  daily  torture.  Almost  the  worse  because  she 
had  for  Mr.  Masters  so  deep  a  respect  and  so  true  an  appre- 
ciation. And  he  loved  her  ;  of  that  there  was  no  question  ; 
the  whole  affection  of  the  best  man  she  had  ever  known, 
was  bestowed  upon  her,  and  in  his  hopes  he  saw  doubtless  a 
future  when  she  would  have  learnt  to  return  his  love. 
'And  I  never  shall,'  thought  Diana.  '  Never,  as  long  as  I  live. 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  get  to  hate  him,  because  I  am  obliged 
to  live  with  him  ?  All  the  heart  I  have  is  Evan's,  and  will 
be  Evan's  ;  it  don't  make  any  difference  that  he  was  not 
worthy  of  me,  as  I  suppose  he  wasn't  ;  I  have  given,  and  I 
cannot  take  back.  And  now  I  must  live  with  this  other 
man  !  ' — Diana  shuddered  already. 

She  shed  no  tears.  Happy  are  they  whose  grief  can 
flow  ;  part  of  the  oppression  at  least  flows  off  with  tears,  if 
not  part  of  the  pain.  Eyes  wide  open,  staring  out  into  the 
moonlight  ;  a  rigid  face,  from  which  the  colour  gradually 
ebbed  and  ebbed  away,  more  and  more  ;  so  Diana  kept  the 
watch  of  her  bridal  eve.  As  the  moon  got  higher,  and  the 
world  lay  clearer  revealed  under  its  light,  shadows  grew 
more  defined  and  objects  more  recognizable,  it  seemed  as 
if  in  due  proportion  the  life  before  Diana's  mental  vision 
opened  and  displayed  itself,  plainer  and  clearer  ;  as  she 
saw  one  she  saw  the  other.  If  Diana  had  been  a  woman 
of  the  world,  her  strength  of  character  would  have  availed 


UNSETTLED.  26 1 

to  do  what  many  a  woman  of  the  world  has  not  the  force 
for  ;  she  would  have  drawn  back  at  the  last  minute  and 
declined  to  fulfil  her  engagement.  But  in  the  sphere  of 
Diana's  experience,  such  a  thing  was  unheard  of.  All  the 
proprieties,  all  the  conditions  of  the  social  life  that  was 
known  to  her,  forbade  even  the  thought ;  and  the  thought 
never  came  to  her.  She  felt  just  as  much  bound,  that  is, 
as  irrecoverably,  as  she  would  be  twenty-four  hours  later. 
But  she  was  like  a  caged  wild  animal.  The  view  of  the 
sweet  moonlit  country  became  unbearable  at  last,  and  she 
walked  up  and  down  her  floor  ;  she  had  a  vague  idea  of 
tiring  herself  so  that  she  could  sleep.  She  did  get  tired 
of  walking,  but  no  sleep  came  ;  and  at  last  she  sat  down 
again  before  her  window  to  watch  another  change  that  was 
coming  over  the  landscape.  The  moon  was  down,  and  a 
cool  grey  light,  very  unlike  her  soft  glamour,  was  stealing 
into  the  sky  and  upon  the  world.  Yes,  the  day  was  coming ; 
the  clear  light  of  a  matter-of-fact,  work-a-day  creation.  It  was 
coming,  and  she  must  meet  it,  and  march  on  in  the  proces- 
sion of  life,  which  would  leave  no  one  out.  If  she  could  go 
alone  !  But  she  must  walk  by  another's  side  now.  And  to 
that  other,  the  light  of  this  grey  dawn,  if  he  saw  it,  brought 
only  thoughts  of  joy.  Could  she  help  his  being  disappoint- 
ed ?  Would  she  be  able  to  help  his  finding  out  what  a  dread- 
ful mistake  he  had  made,  and  she  ?  '  I  must,'  thought  Diana, 
and  set  her  teeth  mentally ;  '  he  must  not  know  how  I  feel  ; 
he  does  not  deserve  that.  He  deserves  nothing  but  good, 
of  me  or  of  anybody.  I  will  give  him  all  I  can,  and  he  shall 
not  know  how  I  do  it.' 

With  a  recoil  in  every  fibre  of  her  nature,  Diana  turned 
to  take  up  her  life  burden.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  had  none 
till  now. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

NEW    LIFE. 

THE  first  week  of  Diana's  marriage  was  always  a  blank 
in  her  memory.  The  one,  continual,  intense  strain  of  effort 
to  hide  from  her  husband  what  she  was  thinking  and  feel- 
ing swallowed  up  everything  else.  Mr.  Masters  had  pro- 
cured a  comfortable  little  light  rockaway,  and  avoiding  all 
public  thoroughfares  and  conveyances,  had  driven  off  with 
Diana  among  the  leafy  wildernesses  of  the  White  mountains  ; 
going  where  they  liked  and  stopping  where  they  liked.  It 
was  more  endurable  to  Diana  than  any  other  way  of  spend- 
ing those  days  could  have  been  ;  the  constant  change  and 
activity,  and  the  variety  of  new  things  always  claiming 
attention  and  admiration,  gave  her  all  the  help  circumstances 
could  give.  They  offered  abundance  of  subjects  for  Mr. 
Masters  to  talk  about ;  and  Diana  could  listen  and  with  a 
word  or  two  now  and  then  get  along  quite  passably.  But 
of  all  the  beauty  they  went  through,  of  all  the  glory  of  those 
June  days,  of  all  the  hours  of  conversation  that  went  on, 
Diana  kept  in  her  memory  but  the  one  fact  of  continual 
striving  to  hinder  Mr.  Masters  from  seeing  her  heart.  She 
supposed  she  succeeded  ;  she  never  could  tell.  For  one 
other  thing  forced  itself  upon  her  consciousness  as  the  days 
went  on  ;  a  growing  appreciation  of  this  man  whom  she 
did  not  love.  His  gentleness  of  manner,  his  tender  care 
and  consideration  for  her,  the  even  sweetness  of  temper 


NEW   LIFE.  263 

w.hich  nothing  disturbed  and  which  would  let  nothing 
disturb  her,  playing  with  inconveniences  which  he  could 
not  remove  ;  and  then,  beneath  all  that,  a  strength  of 
character  and  steady  force  of  will  which  commanded  her 
utmost  respect  and  drew  forth  her  fullest  confidence.  It 
hurt  Diana's  conscience  terribly  that  she  had  given  this 
man  a  wife  who,  as  she  said  to  herself,  was  utterly  unworthy 
of  him  ;  to  make  this  loss  good,  so  far  as  any  possible 
service  or  life-work  could,  she  would  have  done  anything 
or  submitted  to  anything.  It  was  the  one  wish  left  her. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  going  home  ? '  Mr.  Masters 
asked  suddenly  one  evening.  They  had  come  back  from  a 
glorious  ramble  over  the  nearest  mountain  and  were  sitting 
after  supper  in  front  of  the  small  farmhouse  where  they  had 
found  lodging,  looldng  out  upon  the  view.  Twilight  was 
settling  down  upon  the  green  hills.  Diana  started  and 
repeated  his  word. 

'  Home  ? ' 

'  Yes.  I  mean,  Pleasant  Valley,'  said  the  minister 
smiling.  '  Not  the  house  where  I  first  saw  you.  There  are 
one  or  two  sick  people,  from  whom  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can 
be  long  away.' 

'  You  always  think  of  other  people  first ! '  said  Diana, 
almost  with  a  sigh. 

'  So  do  you.' 

'  No,  I  do  not.  I  do  not  think  I  do.  It  seems  to  me  I 
have  always  thought  most  of  myself.' 

'  You  can  begin  now  then  to  do  better.' 

'  In  thinking  of  you  first,  you  mean  ?  O  yes,  I  do.  I 
will.  But  you  think  of  people  you  do  not  care  for.' 

'  No,  I  don't.  Never.  You  cannot  think  of  people  you 
do  not  care  for,  in  the  way  you  mean.  They  will  not  come 
into  your  head.' 


264  DIANA. 

'  How  can  one  do  then,  Basil  ?    How  do  you  do  ? ' 

'  Obviously, — the  only  way  is  to  care  for  them.' 

1  Who  is  sick  in  Pleasant  Valley  ?  ' 

'  Nobody  you  know.  One  is  an  old  man  who  lives  back 
on  the  mountain ;  the  other  is  a  woman  near  Blackberry  hill.' 

'  Blackberry  hill  ?  do  you  go  there  ?  ' 

1  Now  and  then.' 

'  But  those  are  dreadful  people  there.' 

'  Well  ? '  said  the  minister.  '  They  want  help  so  much 
the  more.' 

'  Help  to  live,  do  you  mean  ?  They  do  stealing  enough 
for  that.' 

'  Nobody  lives  by  stealing,'  said  the  minister.  '  It  is 
one  of  the  ways  of  death  ;  and  help  to  live  is  just  what 
they  want.  But  "how  shall  they  believe  on  him  of  whom 
they  have  not  heard  ?  and  how  shall  they  hear  without  a 
preacher  "  ? ' 

'  And  do  you  preach  to  them  in  that  place  ? ' 

'  I  try.' 

'  But  there  is  no  church  there  ? ' 

'  When  you  have  got  anything  to  do,'  said  the  minister 
with  a  dry  sort  of  humourousness  which  belonged  to  him 
'  it  is  best  not  be  stopped  by  trifles.' 

'  Where  do  you  preach  then,  Basil  ? ' 

'  Wherever  I  can  find  a  man  or  a  woman  to  listen  to 
me.' 

'  In  the  houses  ! '  exclaimed  Diana. 

'  Why  not  ? ' 

'  Well,  we  never  had  a  minister  in  Pleasant  Valley  like 
you  before.' 

'  Didn't  you  ? ' 

'  I  don't  believe  anybody  ever  went  to  those  people  to 
preach  to  them,  until  you  went.' 


NEW   LIFE.  265 

'  They  had  a  good  deal  of  that  appearance,'  Mr.  Mas- 
ters assented. 

'  But,'  Diana  began  again  after  a  short  pause, — '  to  go 
back  ;  Basil,  you  do  not  care  for  those  people  ? ' 

'  I  think  I  do,'  said  the  minister  very  quietly. 

'  I  suppose  you  do  ! '  said  Diana  in  a  sort  of  admira- 
tion. '  But  how  can  you  ? ' 

'  Easy  to  tell,'  was  the  answer.  '  God  made  them,  and 
God  loves  them  ;  I  love  all  that  my  Father  loves.  And 
Christ  died  for  them ;  and  I  seek  the  lost  whom  my  Mas- 
ter came  to  save.  And  there  is  not  one  of  them  but  has 
in  him  the  possibility  of  glory ;  and  I  see  that  possibility, 
and  when  I  see  it,  Diana,  it  seems  to  me  a  small  thing  to 
give  my  life,  if  need  be,  that  it  may  be  realized.' 

'  I  am  not  good  enough  to  be  your  wife  ! '  said  Diana, 
sinking  her  head.  And  her  secret  self-abasement  was 
very  deep. 

'  Does  that  mean,  that  you  object  to  the  cutting  short 
of  our  holiday  ? '  the  minister  asked,  in  his  former  tone  of 
dry  humourous  suggestion. 

'  I  ?'  said  Diana  looking  up  and  meeting  his  eyes. 
'  No,  certainly.  I  am  ready  for  whatever  you  wish,  and 
whenever  you  wish.' 

'  I  don't  wish  it  at  all,'  said  the  minister,  giving  a 
somewhat  longing  look  at  the  green  wilderness  before 
them,  of  which  the  lovely  hilly  outlines  were  all  that  the 
gathering  twilight  left  distinct.  '  But  the  thing  is,  Di,  I 
cannot  play  when  I  ought  to  be  working.' 

It  made  little  difference  to  Diana.  Indeed  she  had  a 
hope  that  in  her  new  home  she  would  find,  as  she  always 
had  found  in  her  old  home,  engrossing  duties  that  would 
make  her  part  easier  to  get  through,  and  in  some  measure 
put  a  check  to  the  rush  of  thought  and  feeling.  So  with 


266  DIANA. 

her  full  consent  the  very  next  day  they  set  out  upon  their 
journey  home.  It  was  not  a  great  journey  indeed  ;  a  long 
day's  drive  would  do  it ;  their  horse  was  fresh,  and  they 
had  time  for  a  comfortable  rest  and  dinner  at  mid-day. 
The  afternoon  was  very  fair,  and  as  they  began  to  get 
among  the  hills  overlooking  Pleasant  Valley,  something  in 
air  or  light  reminded  Diana  of  the  time,  two  years  ago, 
when  she  had  gone  up  the  brook  with  Evan.  She  began 
to  talk  to  get  rid  of  her  thoughts. 

'  What  a  nice,  comfortable  little  carriage  this  is,  Basil. 
Where  did  it  come  from  ? ' 

'  From  Boston.' 

'  From  Boston  !  I  thought  there  was  nothing  like  it  in 
Pleasant  Valley,  that  ever  I  saw.  But  how  did  you  get  it 
from  Boston  ? ' 

'  Where's  the  difficulty  ? '  said  the  minister,  sitting  at 
ease  sideways  on  the  front  seat  and  looking  in  at  her. 
He  had  put  Diana  on  the  back  seat  that  she  might  take  a 
more  resting  position  than  there  was  room  for  beside 
him. 

'  Why,  it's  so  far.' 

'  Railway  comes  to  Manchester.  I  received  it  there, 
and  that  is  only  ten  miles.  I  rode  Saladin  over  a  few 
days  ago,  and  drove  him  back.  I  had  ordered  the  set  of 
harness  sent  with  the  rockaway.  Ecco  ! 

'  Echo  ? '  said  Diana.     Where  ? ' 

'  A  very  sweet  echo,'  said  the  minister  smiling.  '  Didn't 
you  hear  it  ? ' 

'  No.  But  Basil,  do  you  mean  that  this  carriage  is  yours  ?' 

'No  ;  it  is  yours.' 

'  Mine  !  then  you  have  bought  it !  Didn't  it  cost  a 
great  deal  ? ' 


NEW    LIFE.  267 

1 1  thought  not.     If  you  like  it,  certainly  not.' 

'  O  Basil,  you  are  very  good ! '  said  Diana  humbly.  '  But 
indeed  I  do  not  want  you  to  go  to  any  expense,  ever,  for 
me.' 

'  I  am  not  a  poor  man,  Diana.' 

'  Aren't  you  ?     I  thought  you  were.' 

'  What  right  had  you  to  think  anything  about  it  ? ' 

'  I  thought  ministers  were  always  poor.' 

'  I  am  an  exception,  then.' 

'  And, — Basil, — you  never  acted  like  a  rich  man.' 

'  I  am  not  going  to,  Di.  Do  you  want  to  act  like  a  rich 
woman  ? ' 

Spite  of  her  desperate  downheartedness,  Diana  could 
not  help  laughing  a  little  at  his  manner. 

'  I  do  not  wish  anything  different  from  you,'  she  an- 
swered. 

'  It  is  best  for  every  reason,  if  you  would  use  money  to 
advantage  in  a  place  like  this,  not  to  make  a  show  of  it. 
And  in  other  places,  if  you  would  use  it  to  advantage,  you 
cannot  make  a  show  of  it.  So  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  But 
short  of  that,  Di,  we  can  do  what  we  like.' 

'  I  know  what  you  like, — '  she  said. 

'  I  shall  find  out  what  you  like.  In  the  first  place,  where 
do  you  think  you  are  going  ? ' 

'  Where  ?  I  never  thought  about  it.  I  suppose  to  Mrs. 
Persimmon's.'  - 

'  I  don't  think  you  would  like  that.  The  place  was  not 
exactly  pleasant ;  and  the  house  accommodations  did  very 
well  for  me,  but  would  not  have  been  comfortable  for  you. 
So  I  have  set  up  housekeeping  in  another  locality.  Do  you 
know  where  a  woman  named  Cophetua  lives  ? ' 

'I  never  heard  of  her.' 

'  Out  of  your  beat.     She  lives  a  little  off  the  road  to  the 


268  DIANA. 

Blackberry  hill.  I  have  taken  her  house,  and  put  a  woman 
in  it  to  do  whatever  you  want  done.' 

'  I  ?  But  we  never  kept  help,  since  I  can  remember, 
Basil ;  npt  house  help.' 

'  Well  ?     That  proves  nothing.' 

'  But  I  don't  need  anybody — I  can  do  all  that  we  want' 

'  You  will  find  enough  to  do.' 

Mr.  Masters  quickened  the  pace  of  his  horse,  and  Diana 
sat  back  in  the  carriage,  half  dismayed.  She  longed  to 
lose  herself  in  work,  and  she  wished  for  nothing  less  than 
eyes  to  watch  her. 

It  was  almost  evening  when  they  got  home.  The  place 
was,  as  Mr.  Masters  had  said,  out  of  what  had  been  Diana's 
way  hitherto ;  in  a  part  of  Pleasant  Valley  which  was  at 
one  side  of  the  high  road.  The  situation  was  very  pretty, 
overlooking  a  wide  sweep  of  the  valley  bottom  with  its  rich 
cultivation  and  its  encircling  border  of  green  wooded  hills. 
As  to  the  house,  it  was  not  distinguished  in  any  way  beyond 
its  compeers.  It  was  rather  low  ;  it  was  as  brown  as  Mrs. 
Starling's  house ;  it  had  no  giant  elms  to  hang  over  it  and 
veil  its  uncomelinesses.  But  just  behind  it  rose  a  green  hill ; 
the  house  indeed  stood  on  the  lower  slope  of  the  hill,  which 
fell  off  more  gently  towards  the  bottom  ;  behind  the  house 
it  lifted  up  a  very  steep  rocky  wall,  yet  not  so  steep  but 
that  it  was  grown  with  beautiful  forest  trees.  Set  off 
against  its  background  of  wood  and  hill,  the  house  looked 
rather  cosy.  It  had  been  put  in  nice  order,  and  even  the 
little  plot  of  ground  in  front  had  been  cleared  of  thistles 
and  hollyhocks,  which  had  held  a  divided  reign,  and  trim- 
med into  neatness,  though  there  had  not  been  time  yet  for 
grass  or  flowers  to  grow. 

Within  the  house  about  this  time,  at  one  of  the  two 
lower  front  windows,  a  little  woman  stood  looking  out  and 


NEW    LIFE.  269 

speculating  on  the  extreme  solitariness  of  the  situation. 
She  had  nobody  to  communicate  her  sentiments  to,  or  she 
could  have  been  eloquent  on  the  subject.  The  golden  glow 
and  shimmer  of  the  setting  sun  all  over  the  wide  land- 
scape, it  may  be  said  with  truth,  she  did  not  see ;  to  her  it 
was  nothing  but  "  sunshine,"  a  natural  and  necessary  acces- 
sory of  the  sun's  presence,  when  clouds  did  not  happen  to 
come  over  the  sky.  I  think  she  really  saw  nothing  but 
the  extreme  emptiness  of  the  picture  before  her ;  just  that 
one  fact,  that  there  was  nothing  to  see.  Therefore  it  was 
on  various  accounts  an  event,  when  the  rockaway  hove  in 
sight  and  the  grey  horse  stopped  before  the  gate.  It  did 
not  occur  to  Miss  Collins  then  to  go  out  to  the  carriage  to 
receive  bundles  or  baskets  or  render  help  generally  ;  she 
had  got  something  to  look  at,  and  she  looked.  Only  when 
the  minister,  having  tied  Saladin's  head,  came  leading  the 
way  through  the  little  courtyard  to  the  front  door,  did  it 
occur  to  his  '  help '  to  open  the  same.  There  she  stood, 
smiling  the  blankest  of  smiles,  which  made  Diana  want  to 
get  rid  of  her  on  the  instant. 

'  Well  of  all  things  ! '  was  her  salutation  uttered  in  a 
high  key.  '  If  it  ain't  you  !  I  never  was  so  beat.  Why  I 
didn't  look  for  ye  this  long  spell  yet.' 

'  Won't  you  let  us  come  in,  Miss  Collins,  seeing  we 
are  here  ? ' 

'  La !  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  fust-rate,'  was  the  answer  as 
she  stepped  back;  and  stepping  further  back  as  Mr.  Masters 
advanced,  at  last  she  pushed  open  the  door  of  her  kitchen, 
which  was  the  front  room  on  that  side,  and  backed  in,  fol- 
lowed by  the  minister  and,  at  a  little  interval,  by  his  wife. 
Miss  Collins  went  on  talking. — '  How  do,  Mis'  Masters  ? 
I  speck  I  can't  be  under  no  mistake  as  to  the  personality, 
though  I  hain't  had  the  pleasure  o'  a  introduction.  But 


2/O  DIANA. 

I  thought  honeymoon  folks  allays  make  it  last  as  long  as 
they  could  ? '  she  went  on,  turning  her  eyes  from  Diana  to 
the  minister  again  ;  '  and  you  hain't  been  no  time  at  all.' 

'  What  have  you  got  in  the  house,  Miss  Collins  ?  any- 
thing for  supper  ?  I  am  hungry,'  said  the  latter. 

'  Wall — happiness  makes  some  folks  hungry, — and  some, 
they  say,  it  feeds  'em,'  Miss  Collins  returned.  '  Folks  is  so 
unlike  !  But  if  you're  hungry,  Mr.  Masters,  you'll  have  to 
have  sun'thin.' 

Leaving  her  to  prepare  it,  with  a  laughing  twinkle  in 
his  eye  the  minister  led  Diana  out  of  that  room  and  along 
a  short  passage  to  another  door.  The  passage  was  very 
narrow,  the  ceiling  was  low,  the  walls  whitewashed,  the 
wainscotting  blue  ;  and  yet  the  room  which  they  entered, 
though  sharing  in  all  the  items  of  this  description,  was 
homely  and  comfortable.  It  was  furnished  in  a  way  that 
made  It  seem  elegant  to  Diana.  A  warm  coloured  dark 
carpet  on  the  floor ;  two  or  three  easy  chairs,  a  wide  lounge 
covered  with  chintz,  and  chintz  curtains  at  the  windows. 
On  the  walls  here  and  there  single  shelves  of  dark  wood 
put  up  for  books,  and  filled  with  them  ;  a  pretty  lamp  on 
the  little  leaf  table,  and  a  wide  fireplace  with  bright  brass 
andirons.  The  windows  looked  out  upon  the  wooded 
mountain  side.  Diana  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
and  admiration. 

'  This  is  your  room,  Di,'  said  the  minister.  '  The  kitch- 
en has  the  view  ;  I  did  think  of  changing  about  and  making 
the  kitchen  here  :  but  the  other  room  has  so  long  been 
used  in  that  way,  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  a  bad  exchange. 
However,  we  will  do  it  yet,  if  you  like.' 

'  Change  ?  why  this  room  is  beautiful ! '  cried  Diana. 

'  Looks  out  into  the  hill. ' 

'  O  I  like  that.' 


NEW    LIFE.  2/i 

'  Don't  make  it  a  principle  to  like  everything  I  do,'  said 
he  smiling. 

1  But  I  do  like  it,  Basil ;  I  like  it  better  than  the  other 
side,'  said  Diana.  '  I  just  love  the  trees  and  the  rocks. 
And  you  can  hear  the  birds  sing.  And  the  room  is  most 
beautiful.' 

Mr.  Masters  had  opened  the  windows,  and  there  came 
in  a  spicy  breath  from  the  woods,  together  with  the  wild 
warble  of  a  wood  thrush.  It  was  so  wild  and  sweet,  they 
both  were  still  to  listen.  The  notes  almost  broke  Diana's 
heart,  but  she  would  not  shew  that. 

'  What  do  you  think  that  bird  is  saying? '  she  asked. 

'  I  don't  know  what  it  may  be  to  his  mind  ;  I  know  what 
it  to  mine.  Pray,  what  does  it  say  to  yours  ? ' 

'It  is  too  plaintive  for  the  bird  to  know  what  it  means,' 
said  Diana. 

'  Probably.  I  have  no  doubt  the  ancients  were  right  when 
they  felt  certain  animals  to  be  types  of  good  and  others  of 
evil.  I  think  it  is  true,  in  detail  and  variety.  I  have  the  same 
feeling.  And  in  like  manner,  carrying  out  the  principle,  I 
hear  one  bird  say  one  thing  and  another  another,  in  their 
countless  varieties  of  song.' 

'  Did  the  ancients  think  that  ? ' 

'  Don't  you  remember  the  distinction  between  clean 
beasts  and  unclean  ? ' 

'  I  thought  that  was  ordered.' 

'  It  was  ordered  to  be  observed.  The  distinction  was 
felt  before.' 

They  were  again  silent  a  moment,  while  the  thrush's  song 
filled  the  air  with  liquid  rejoicing. 

'  That  bird,'  said  Diana  slowly,  '  sings  as  if  he  had  got 
somewhere  above  all  the  sins  and  troubles  and  fights  of  life  j 
I  mean,  as  if  he  were  a  human  being  who  had  got  there.' 

'  That  will  do,'  said  the  minister. 


2/2  DIANA. 

'  But  that's  impossible  ;  so  why  should  he  sing  it  ? ' 

'  Take  it  the  other  way,'  said  the  minister  smiling. 

'  You  mean — '  said  Diana  looking  up,  for  she  had  sat 
down  before  the  open  window  and  he  stood  by  her  side  ; 
'  you  mean,  he  would  not  sing  a  false  note  ? ' 

'  Nor  God  make  a  promise  he  would  not  fulfil.  Come 
up  stairs.' 

'  But  Basil  ! — how  could  the  bird's  song  be  a  promise 
from  God  ? ' 

'  Think ; — he  gave  the  song,  Diana.  As  has  been  said 
of  visible  things  in  nature,  so  it  may  be  said  of  audible 
things, — every  one  of  them  is  the  expression  of  a  thought  of 
God: 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  and  Diana's  mind  was 
too  full  to  give  one.  Up  stairs  they  went.  The  room  over 
Diana's  was  arranged  to  be  Mr.  Masters'  study ;  the  other, 
above  the  kitchen,  looked  out  upon  a  glorious  view  of  the 
rich  valley  and  its  encompassing  hills  ;  both  were  exceed- 
ingly neat  and  pretty  in  their  furniture  and  arrangements, 
in  all  of  which  Diana's  comfort  had  been  sedulously  cared 
for.  Her  husband  shewed  her  the  closet  for  her  boxes  and 
opened  the  huge  press  prepared  for  her  clothes  ;  and  tak- 
ing off  her  bonnet,  welcomed  her  tenderly  home.  But  it 
seemed  to  Diana  as  if  everything  stifled  her,  and  she  would 
have  liked  to  flee  to  the  hills,  like  the  wHd  creatures  that 
had  their  home  there.  Her  outward  demeanour,  for  all  that, 
was  dignified  and  sweet.  Whatever  she  felt,  she  would 
not  give  pain. 

'  You  are  too  good  to  me,'  she  murmured.  '  I  will  be 
as  good  as  I  can,  Basil,  to  you.' 

'  I  know  it,' — said  he. 

'  And  I  think  I  had  better  begin,'  she  presently  added 
more  lightly,  '  by  going  down  and  seeing  how  Miss  Collins 
and  supper  are  getting  on.' 


NEW    LIFE.  273 

'  I  dare  say  they  will  get  on  to  some  sort  of  consumma- 
tion.' 

'  It  will  be  a  better  consummation,  if  you  let  me  go.' 

Perhaps  he  divined  something  of  her  feeling,  for  he 
made  no  objection,  and  Diana  escaped  ;  with  a  sense  that 
her  only  refuge  was  in  action.  To  do  something,  no  mat- 
ter what,  and  stop  thinking.  Yet  when  she  went  down 
stairs  she  went  first  to  the  back  room  and  to  the  open  win- 
dow, to  see  if  she  could  catch  the  note  of  the  thrush  once 
more.  It  came  to  her  like  a  voice  from  the  other  world. 
He  was  still  singing ;  somewhere  up  amid  the  cool  shades 
of  the  hemlocks  and  oaks  on  the  hill,  from  out  the  dusky 
twilight  of  their  tops  ;  sending  his  tremulous  trills  of 
triumph  down  the  hillside,  he  was  undoubtedly  having  a 
good  time.  Diana  listened  a  minute  ;  and  then  went  to 
the  kitchen.  Miss  Collins  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
fire  contemplating  it,  or  the  kettle  she  had  hung  over  it. 

'  Where  is  Mr.  Masters'  supper  ? '  Diana  began. 

'  Don't  you  take  none  ? '  was  the  rejoinder. 

'  I  mean,  what  can  we  have  ? ' 

'  You  can  have  all  there  is.  And  there  ain't  nothin'  in 
the  house  but  what's  no  'count.  If  I'd  ha'  knowed — honey- 
moon folks  wants  sun'thin'  tip-top,  been  livin'  on  the  fat  o' 
the  land,  I  expect ;  and  now  ye're  come  home  to  pork  ;  and 
that's  the  hull  on't.' 

'  Pork  will  do,'  said  Diana,  '  if  it  is  good.  Have  you 
no  ham  ? ' 

'  Lots.     That's  pork,  ain't  it.' 

'Eggs?'      . 

'  Yes,  there's  eggs.' 

*  Potatoes  ? ' 

*  La,  I  didn't  expect  ye'd  want  potatoes  at  this  time  o' 
day.' 

18 


2/4  DIANA. 

Diana  informed  herself  of  the  places  of  things,  and  set 
herself  and  Miss  Collins  vigorously  to  work.  The  hand- 
maid looked  on  somewhat  ungraciously  at  the  quiet,  compe- 
tent energy  of  her  superior,  the  smile  on  her  broad  mouth 
gradually  fading.  ' 

'  Reckon  you  don't  know  me,' — she  remarked  presently. 

'  Yes,  I  do,'  said  Diana  ;  '  you  are  Jemima  Collins,  that 
used  to  live  at  the  post  office.  How  came  you  here  ? ' 

'  Wall,  there's  nothin'  but  changes  in  the  world,  I  expect ; 
that's  my  life.  Mis'  Reems,  to  the  post  office,  had  her 
mother  come  home  to  live  with  her  ;  owin'  to  her  father 
gettin'  his  arm  took  off  in  some  'chinery,  which  was  the 
death  o'  him  ;  so  the  mother  come  home  to  her  daughter, 
and  then  they  made  it  out  as  they  two  was  equal  to  all 
there  was  to  do  ;  and  I  don't  say  they  warn't ;  but  that 
was  reason  enough  why  they  didn't  want  me  no  longer. 
And  then  I  staid  with  Miss  Gunn  a  spell,  helpin'  her  get 
her  house  cleaned  ;  and  then  the  minister  made  out  as  he 
wanted  a  real  'sponsible  person  for  to  take  care  o'  his 
house,  and  Miss  Gunn  she  told  him  what  she  knowed  about 
me  ;  and  so  I  moved  in.  La,  it's  a  change  from  the  post 
office  !  It  was  sort  o'  lively  there  ;  allays  comin'  and  goin', 
and  lots  o'  news.' 

Diana  made  no  answer.  The  very  mention  of  the  post 
office  gave  her  a  sort  of  pang  ;  about  that  spot  her  hopes 
had  hovered  for  so  long,  and  with  such  bitter  disillusioniz- 
ing. She  sent  Miss  Collins  to  set  the  table  in  the  other 
room,  and  presently,  having  finished  her  cookery,  followed 
M  ith  it  herself. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SUPPER  AT   HOME. 

THE  windows  were  open  still  and  the  dusky  air  without 
was  full  of  cool  freshness.  In  the  wide  fireplace  the  minis- 
ter had  kindled  a  fire  ;  and  in  a  little  blue  teapot  he  was 
just  making  the  tea ;  the  kettle  stood  on  the  hearth.  It 
was  as  pretty  and  cheerful  a  home  view  as  any  bride  need 
wish  to  see  for  the  first  evening  in  her  new  house.  Diana 
knew  it  and  took  the  effect,  which  possibly  was  only  height- 
ened by  the  consciousness  that  she  wished  herself  five 
hundred  miles  away.  What  the  picture  was  to  her  husband, 
she  had  no  idea,  nor  that  the  crowning  feature  of  it  was  her 
own  beautiful,  sweet  presence.  Miss  Collins  brought  in 
the  prepared  dishes,  and  left  the  two  alone. 

'  I  see  I  have  fallen  into  new  hands,'  the  minister 
remarked  presently.  '  Mrs.  Persimmon  never  cooked  these 
eggs.' 

'  You  must  have  been  tired  of  living  in  that  way,  I 
should  think.' 

'  No, — I  never  get  tired  of  anything.' 

'  Not  of  bad  things  ? ' 

1  No.    I  get  rid  of  them.' 

'  But  how  can  you  ? ' 

'  Different  ways.' 

-    '  Can  you  do  everything  you  want  to,  Basil  ? '  his  wife 
asked  with  an  incredulous  sort  of  admiration. 


2/6  DIANA. 

'  I'll  do  everything  you  want  me  to  do.' 

'  You  have  already, — and  more,'  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

'*  How  will  your  helpmeet  in  the  other  room  answer  the 
purpose  ? ' 

'  I  have  never  been  used  to  have  anybody,  you  know, 
Basil ;  and  I  do  not  need  any  one.  I  can  do  all  easily 
myself.' 

'  I  know  you  can.     I  do  not  wish  you  should.' 

'  Then  what  will  you  give  me  to  do  ? ' 

'  Plenty.' 

'  I  don't  care  what — if  I  can  only  be  busy.  I  cannot 
bear  to  be  idle.  What  shall  I  do,  Basil  ? ' 

'  Is  there  nothing  you  would  like  to  stud)',  that  you 
have  never  had  a  chance  to  learn  ? ' 

'  Learn  ? '  said  Diana,  a  whole  vista  of  possible  new 
activities  opening  all  at  once  before  her  mind's  eye  ; — '  O 
yes  !  I  would  like  to  learn — to  study.  What,  Basil  ? ' 

'  What  would  you  like  to  take  hold  of  ? ' 

'  I  would  like — Latin.' 

'  Latin  ! '  cried  the  minister.  '  That's  an  excellent 
choice.  Greek  too  ? ' 

'  I  would  like  to  learn  Greek,  very  much.     But  I  sup- 
pose I  must  begin  with  one  at  once.' 
How  about  modern  languages  ? ' 

'  You  know,'  said  Diana  shyly, — '  I  can  have  no  teacher 
but  you.' 

'  And  you  stand  in  doubt  as  to  my  qualifications  ? 
Prudent ! ' 

'  I  will  learn  anything  you  like  to  teach  me,'  said 
Diana ;  and  her  look  was  both  very  sweet  and  very  hum- 
ble ;  withal  had  something  of  an  anxious  strain  in  it. 

'  Then  there's  another  thing ;  don't  you  want  to  help 
me?' 


SUPPER  AT   HOME.  2/7 

'  How  ? ' 

'  In  my  work. 

'  How  can  I  ? ' 

'  I  don't  believe  you  know  what  my  work  is,'  said  the 
minister  dryly.  '  Do  you,  now  ? ' 

'  I  thought  I  did,'  said  Diana. 

'  Preaching  sermons,  to  wit ! '  said  the  minister.  '  But 
that  is  only  one  item.  My  business  is  to  work  in  my  Mas- 
ter's vineyard.' 

'  Yes,  and  I  thought  that  was  how  you  did  it.' 

'  But  a  man  may  preach  many  sermons,  and  do  never  a 
bit  of  work, — of  the  sort  I  mentioned.' 

*  What  is  the  sort  then,  Basil  ? ' 

'I'll  shew  you,  when  we  get  away  from  the  table.  It 
is  time  you  knew.' 

So  when  the  supper  tray  and  Miss  Collins  were  gone, 
the  minister  took  his  Bible  and  made  Diana  sit  down  be 
side  him  where  they  could  both  look  over  it. 

'  Your  notion  of  a  minister  is,  that  he  is  a  sort  of  ma- 
chine to  make  sermons  ? ' 

'  I  never  thought  you  were  a  machine,  of  any  sort,'  said 
Diana  gently. 

'  No,  of  course  not ;  but  you  thought  that  was  my 
special  business,  didn't  you  ?  Now  look  here. — "  Son  of 
man,  I  have  made  thee  a  watchman  unto  the  house  of 
Israel:  therefore  hear  the  word  at  my  mouth  and  give 
them  warning  from  me."  ' 

'  A  watchman  ' — Diana  repeated. 

'  It  is  a  responsible  post  too,  for  see  over  here, — "  If 
the  watchman  see  the  sword  come,  and  blow  not  the  trumpet, 
and  the  people  be  not  warned  ;  if  the  sword  come,  and  take 
any  person  from  among  them,  he  is  taken  away  in  his  in- 
iquity ;  but  his  blood  will  I  require  at  the  watchman  s  hind" 


2/8  DIANA. 

'  Do  you  mean,  Basil — ' 

'  Yes,  I  mean  all  that.  You  can  understand  now  what 
was  in  Saul's  mind,  and  what  a  great  word  it  was,  when  he 
said  to  the  Ephesian  elders,  "  I  take  you  to  record  this  day, 
that  I  am  pure  from  the  blood  of  all  men."  He  had 
done  his  whole  duty  in  that  place  ! ' 

'  I  never  felt  that  old  Mr.  Hardenburgh  warned  us 
against  anything,'  Diana  remarked. 

'  Did  I  ? ' 

'  You  began  to  make  me  uncomfortable  almost  as  soon 
as  you  came.' 

'  That's  good,'  said  the  minister  quietly.  '  Now  see 
these  words,  Diana — -"  Go  ye  into  all  the  world  and  tell 
the  good  news  to  everybody."  ' 

'  "  Preach  the  gospel "  ' — said  Diana. 

'  That  is  simply,  telling  the  good  news.' 

'Is  it?' 

'  Certainly.' 

'But,  Basil,  it  never  seemed  so.' 

'  There  was  a  reason  for  that.  "  As  cold  waters  to  a 
thirsty  soul,  so  is  good  news  from  a  far  country."  You 
were  not  thirsty,  that  is  all.' 

'  Basil,'  said  Diana  almost  tremulously,  '  I  think  I  am 
now.' 

'  Well,'  said  her  husband  tenderly, — '  you  know  who 
could  say,  and  did  say,  "  If  any  man  thirst,  let  him  come 
unto  ME  and  drink."  "  I  am  the  bread  of  life ;  he  that 
cometh  to  me  shall  never  hunger,  and  he  that  believeth  on 
me  shall  never  thirst."  ' 

That  bringing  together  of  need  and  supply,  while  yet 
Need  does  not  see  how  it  is  to  stretch  out  its  hand  to  take 
the  supply — how  sharp  and  how  pitiful  it  makes  the  sense 
of  longing!  Diana  drooped  her  head  till  it  touched 


SUPPER   AT    HOME.  2/9 

Basil's  arm ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  heart  would  fairly 
break. 

'  But  that  doesn't  mean  ' — she  said,  bringing  out  her 
words  with  hesitation  and  difficulty,  'that  does  not  mean — 
hunger  of  every  sort  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Of  earthly  sorts,  Basil  ?  how  can  it  ?  people's  desires 
for  so  many  things  ? ' 

'  Is  there  any  limit  or  qualification  to  the  promise  ? ' 

'  N — o  ;  not  there.' 

'  Is  there  anywhere  else  ? ' 

Diana  was  silent. 

'  There  is  none  anywhere,  except  the  limit  put  by  the 
faith  of  the  applicant.  I  have  known  a  person  starving  to 
death,  relieved  for  the  time  even  from  the  pangs  of  bodily 
hunger  by  the  food  which  Christ  gave  her.  There  is  no  con- 
dition of  human  extremity,  for  which  he  is  not  sufficient' 

'  But,'  said  Diana,  still  speaking  with  difficulty, '  that  is 
for  some  people.' 

'  For  some  people — and  for  everybody  else.' 

'  But — he  would  not  like  to  have  anybody  go  to  him 
just  for  such  a  reason.' 

'  He  will  never  ask  why  you  came,  if  you  come.  He 
was  in  this  world  to  relieve  misery,  and  to  save  from  it. 
"  Him  that  cometh  to  me  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out,"  is  his 
own  word.  He  will  help  you  if  you  will  let  him,  Diana.' 

Diana's  head  pressed  more  heavily  against  Basil's  arm  ; 
the  temptation  was  to  break  out  into  wild  weeping  at  this 
contact  of  sympathy,  but  she  would  not.  Did  her  husband 
guess  how  much  she  was  in  want  of  help  ?  That  thought 
half  frightened  her.  Presently  she  raised  her  head  and  sat 
up. 

'  Here  is  another  verse,'  said  her  husband,  '  which  tells 


2  SO  DIANA. 

of  a  part  of  my  work.  "  Go  ye  into  the  highways,  and  as 
many  as  ye  shall  find,  bid  to  the  marriage"  ' 

'  I  don't  understand — ' 

'  "  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  like  unto  a  certain  king 
which  made  a  marriage  for  his  son," — it  means  rather  a 
wedding  entertainment.' 

'  How,  Basil  ? ' 

'  The  Bridegroom  is  Christ.  The  bride  is  the  whole 
company  of  his  redeemed.  The  time  is  by  and  by,  when 
they  shall  be  all  gathered  together,  all  washed  from  defile- 
ment, all  dressed  in  the  white  robes  of  the  king's  court 
which  are  given  them,  and  delivered  from  the  last  shadow 
of  mortal  sorrow  and  infirmity.  Then  in  glory  begins  their 
perfected,  everlasting  union  with  Christ ;  then  the  wedding 
is  celebrated ;  and  the  supper  signifies  the  fulness  and 
communion  of  His  joy  in  them  and  their  joy  in  Him.' 

Basil's  voice  was  a  little  subdued  as  he  spoke  the  last 
words,  and  he  paused  a  few  minutes. 

'  It  is  my  business  to  bid  people  to  that  supper,'  he  said 
then  ;  '  and  I  bid  you,  Di.' 

'  I  will  go,  Basil.' 

But  the  words  were  low  and  the  tears  burst  forth,  and 
Diana  hurried  away. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    MINISTER'S    WIFE. 

DIANA  plunged  herself  now  into  business.  She  was 
quite  in  earnest  in  the  promise  she  had  made  at  the  end 
of  the  conversation  last  recorded  ;  but  to  set  about  a  work 
is  one  thing  and  to  carry  it  through  is  another  ;  and  Diana 
did  not  immediately  see  light.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  pres- 
sure of  the  bonds  of  her  new  existence  was  only  to  be 
borne  by  forgetting  it  in  intense  occupation.  Her  husband 
wanted  her  to  study  many  things  ;  for  her  own  sake  and  for 
his  own  sake  he  wished  it,  knowing  that  her  education 
had  been  exceedingly  orie-sided  and  imperfect ;  he  wanted 
all  sources  of  growth  and  pleasure  to  be  open  to  her,  and 
he  wanted  full  communion  with  his  wife  in  his  own  life 
and  life-work.  So  he  took  her  hands  from  the  frying-pan 
and  the  preserving  kettle,  and  put  dictionaries  and  philos- 
ophies into  them.  On  her  part,  besides  the  negative  in- 
citement of  losing  herself  and  her  troubles  in  books,  Di- 
ana's mental  nature  was  too  sound  and  rich- not  to  take 
kindly  the  new  seeds  dropped  into  the  soil.  She  had  gone 
just  far  enough  in  her  own  private  reading  and  thinking  to 
be  all  ready  to  spring  forward  in  the  wider  sphere  to  which 
she  was  invited,  and  in  which  a  hand  took  hers  to  help  her 
along.  The  consciousness  of  awakening  power,  too,  and  of 
enlarging  the  bounds  of  her  world,  drew  her  on.  Some- 
times in  Basil's  study,  where  he  had  arranged  a  place  for  her, 


282  DIANA. 

sometimes  down  stairs  in  her  own  little  parlour,  Diana  pored 
over  books  and  turned  the  leaves  of  dictionaries  ;  and  felt 
her  way  along  the  mazes  of  Latin  stateliness,  or  wondered 
and  thrilled  at  the  beauty  of  the  Greek  words  of  the  New 
Testament  as  her  husband  explained  them  to  her.  Or  she 
wrought  out  problems  ;  or  she  wrote  abstracts  ;  or  she  dived 
into  depths  of  philosophical  speculation.  Then  Diana  began 
to  learn  French,  and  very  soon  was  delighting  herself  in 
one  or  other  of  a  fine  collection  of  French  classics  which 
filled  certain  shelves  in  the  library.  There  was,  besides  all 
the  motives  above-mentioned  which  quickened  and  stimu- 
lated her  zeal  for  learning,  another  very  subtle  underlying 
cause  which  had  not  a  little  to  do  with  her  unflagging  en- 
ergy in  pursuit  of  her  objects.  Nay,  there  were  two.  Di- 
ana did  earnestly  wish  to  please  her  husband,  and  for  his 
sake  to  become,  so  far  as  cultivation  would  do  it,  a  fit  com- 
panion for  him.  That  she  knew.  But  she  scarcely  knew, 
how  beneath  all  that  and  mightier  than  all  that,  was  the 
impulse  to  make  herself  worthy  of  the  other  man  whose 
companion  now  she  would  never  be.  Subtle,  as  so  many 
of  our  springs  of  action  are,  unrecognized,  it  drove  her 
with  an  incessant  impulse.  To  be  such  a  woman  as  Evan 
would  have  been  proud  of ;  such  a  one  as  he  would  have  liked 
to  stand  by  his  side  anywhere  ;  one  that  he  need  not  have 
feared  to  present  in  any  society.  Diana  strove  for  it,  and 
that  although  Evan  would  never  know  it  and  it  did  not  in  the 
least  concern  him.  And  as  she  felt  from  time  to  time  that 
she  was  attaining  her  end  and  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
to  what  she  wished  to  be,  Diana  was  glad  with  a  secret  joy 
which  was  not  the  love  of  knowledge,  nor  the  pride  of  per- 
sonal ambition,  nor  the  duty  of  an  affectionate  wife.  As 
I  said,  she  did  not  recognize  it ;  if  she  had,  I  think  she 
would  have  tried  to  banish  it. 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  283 

One  afternoon  she  was  sitting  by  her  table  at  the  study 
window,  where  she  had  been  very  busy  but  was  not  busy 
now.  The  window  was  open  ;  the  warm  summer  air  came 
in,  and  over  the  hills  and  the  lowland  the  brilliance  and 
glow  of  the  evening  sunlight  was  just  at  its  brightest.  Diana 
sat  gazing  out,  while  her  thoughts  went  wandering.  Sud- 
denly she  pulled  them  up  ;  and  her  question  was  rather  a 
departure,  though  standing  in  a  certain  negative  connection 
with  them. 

'  Basil,  I  can't  make  out  just  what  faith  is.' 

'  Cannot  you  ? ' 

'  No.  Can  you  help  me  ?  The  Bible  says,  "  believe" 
'  believe."  I  believe.  I  believe  everything  it  tells  me,  and 
you  tell  me  ;  but  I  have  not  faith.' 

'  How  do  you  know  that  ? ' 

'  If  I  had,  I  should  be  a  Christian.' 

'  And  you  think  you  are  not  ? ' 

'  I  am  sure  I  am  not.' 

'  Are  you  willing  ? ' 

'  I  think  I — am  willing,'  Diana  answered  slowly,  look- 
ing out  into  the  sunlight. 

'  If  you  are  right,  then  faith  must  be  something  more 
than  mere  belief.' 

'What  more  is  it?'  she  said  eagerly,  turning  her  face 
towards  him  now. 

'  I  think,  the  heart  has  its  part  in  it,  as  well  as  the  head 
and  it  is  with  the  heart  that  the  difficulty  lies.  In  true 
Bible  faith,  the  heart  gives  its  confidence  where  the  intellect 
has  given  its  assent.  "  With  the  heart  man  believeth  unto 
righteousness."  That  is  what  the  Lord  wants  ; — our  per 
sonal  trust  in  him ;  unreserved  and  limitless  trust ' 

'  Trust  ? '  said  Diana.  '  Then  why  cannot  I  give  it  ? 
why  don't  I  ? ' 


284  DIANA. 

'  That  is  the  question  to  be  answered.  But  Di,  the 
heart  cannot  yield  that  confident  trust,  so  long  as  there  is 
any  point  in  dispute  between  it  and  God ;  so  long  as  there 
is  any  consciousness  of  holding  back  something  from  him 
or  refusing  something  to  him.  Disobedience  and  trust 
cannot  go  together.  It  is  not  the  child  who  is  standing 
out  in  rebellion,  who  can  stretch  out  his  hand  for  his 
father's  gifts  and  know  that  they  will  be  given.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  am  rebelling,  Basil  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  see  into  your  heart,  Di.' 

'  What  could  I  be  "  holding  back  "  from  God  ? ' 

'  Unconditional  surrender.' 

'  Surrender  of  what  ? ' 

'Yourself  —  your  will.  When  you  have  made  that 
surrender,  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  trusting.  There 
never  is.' 

Diana  turned  to  the  window  again,  and  leaning  her 
head  on  her  hand  sat  motionless  for  a  long  time.  Sunlight 
left  the  bottom  lands  and  crept  up  the  hills  and  faded  out 
of  the  sky.  Dusk  and  dews  of  twilight  fell  all  around,  and 
the  dusk  deepened  till  the  stars  began  to  shine  out  here 
and  there.  Sweet  summer  scents  came  in  on  the  dew- 
freshened  air  ;  sweet  chirrup  of  insects  made  their  gentle 
running  commentary  on  the  silence  ;  Miss  Collins  had  long 
ago  caused  the  little  bell  with  which  she  was  wont  to  notify 
her  employers  that  their  meals  were  ready,  to  sound  its 
tinkling  call  to  supper ;  but  Diana  had  not  heard  it,  and 
the  minister  would  not  disturb  her.  It  was  after  a  very 
long  time  of  this  silence  that  she  rose,  came  to  the  table 
where  he  was  sitting,  and  knelt  down  beside  it. 

'  I  believe,'  she  said.     '  And  I  trust,  Basil.' 

He  took  her  hand,  but  said  nothing  otherwise.  He 
could  not  see  her  face,  for  she  had  laid  it  down  upon  some 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  285 

books,  and  besides  the  room  was  very  dusky  now.  But 
when  he  expected  some  further  words  which  should  tell  of 
relief,  or  joy,  to  his  surprise  he  felt  that  Diana  was  weep- 
ing, and  then  that  her  tears  had  grown  into  a  storm.  Most 
strange  for  her,  who  very  rarely  let  him  or  anyone  see  the 
outbursts  of  such  feeling  ;  indeed  even  by  herself  she  was 
very  slow  to  come  to  the  indulgence  of  tears.  It  was  not 
her  way.  Now,  before  she  was  aware,  they  were  flowing ; 
and  as  it  is  with  some  natures,  if  you  open  the  sluice  gates 
at  all,  a  flood  pours  forth  which  makes  it  impossible  to  shut 
them  again  for  a  while.  And  this  time  I  think  she  forgot 
that  anybody  was  by.  He  was  puzzled.  Was  it  joy  or 
sorrow  ?  Hard  for  herself  to  tell,  there  was  so  much  of  both 
in  it.  For  with  the  very  first  finding  of  a  sufficient  refuge 
and  help  for  her  trouble,  Diana  had  brought  her  burden 
to  His  feet,  and  there  was  weeping  convulsively;  partly 
from  the  sense  of  the  burden,  partly  with  the  sense  of  lay- 
ing it  down,  and  with  the  might  of  that  infinite  sympathy 
the  apprehension  of  which  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon 
her  now  for  the  first  time.  What  is  it  like  ?  O  what  is  it 
like  !  It  is  the  "  Dayspring  from  on  high."  Basil  could  not 
read  all  she  was  feeling  and  spell  it  out.  But  I  think  he 
had  a  sort  of  instinct  of  it,  and  felt  that  his  wife  was  very 
far  from  him,  in  this  her  agony  of  joy  and  sorrow  ;  for  he 
kept  motionless,  and  his  broad  brow,  which  never  was 
wrinkled,  was  very  grave.  One  hand  he  laid  lightly  upon 
Diana's  shoulder,  as  if  so  to  remind  her  of  his  presence 
and  close  participation  in  all  that  concerned  her  ;  otherwise 
he  did  not  interrupt  her  nor  make  any  claim  upon  her 
attention. 

Gradually  Diana's  sobs  ceased ;  and  then  she  grew 
utterly  still ;  and  the  two  sat  so  together,  for  neither  of 
them  knew  how  long.  At  last  Diana  raised  her  head. 


286  DIANA. 

'  You  have  had  no  supper  all  this  while  ! '  she  said. 

'  I  have  had  something  much  better/  said  he,  gently 
kissing  her  cheek. 

'  To  see  me  cry  ? '  said  Diana.  '  I  don't  know  why  I 
cried.' 

'  I  think  I  do.     Don't  you  feel  better  for  it  ? 

'  Yes.  Or  else,  for  that  which  made  me  do  so.  Come 
down,  Basil.' 

At  tea  she  was  perfectly  herself  and  quite  as  usual, 
except  for  the  different  expression  in  her  face.  It  was 
hardly  less  grave  than  before,  but  something  dark  had  gone 
out  and  something  light  had  come  in. 

'  I  can  face  the  Sewing  Society  now,'  she  remarked 
towards  the  end  of  the  meal. 

'  The  Sewing  Society ! '  her  husband  echoed.  '  Is  that 
much  to  face  ? ' 

'  I  have  not  been  once  since  I  was  married.  And  they 
make  so  much  fuss  about  it,  I  must  go  now.  They  meet 
to-morrow  at  mother's.' 

'  What  do  they  sew  ? ' 

'  They  pretend  to  be  making  up  a  box  for  some  mis- 
sionary out  west.' 

'  I  guess  there  is  no  pretence  about  it.' 

'  Yes,  there  is.  They  have  been  eight  months  at  work 
upon  a  box  to  go  to  Iowa  somewhere,  to  a  family  very  much 
in  want  of  everything  ;  and  the  children  and  mother  are 
almost,  or  quite  I  guess,  in  rags,  and  the  ladies  here  are 
comfortably  doing  a  little  once  a  week,  and  don't  even 
expect  to  have  the  box  made  up  till  Christmas  time.  Think 
of  the  people  in  Iowa  waiting  and  waiting,  with  hardly 
anything  to  put  on,  while  we  meet  once  a  week  and  sew  a 
little  and  talk  and  have  supper.' 

'  How  would  you  manage  it  ? ' 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  287 

'  I  would  send  off  the  box  next  week,  Basil.' 

'  So  would  I.     Suppose  now  we  do  ? ' 

1  Send  off  a  box  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  I  will  give  you  the  money — you  can  go — I  will 
drive  you — down  to  Gunn's,  and  you  can  get  there  what- 
ever you  think  would  be  suitable,  and  we  will  have  the  fun 
to  ourselves.' 

The  colour  flushed  into  Diana's  face  ;  it  was  the  first 
flush  of  pleasure  that  had  come  there  in  a  long  while. 

'  You  are  very  good,  Basil ! '  she  said.  '  Don't  you 
think  I  could  drive  Saladin  ? ' 

'  Where  ? ' 

'  Anywhere.  I  mean,  that  I  could  go  to  places  then 
without  troubling  you  to  drive  me.' 

'  I  can  stand  so  much  trouble.  It  is  not  good  for  a  man 
to  live  too  easy.' 

'  But  it  might  be  convenient  for  you  sometimes.' 

'  So  it  might.  And  pleasant  for  you.  No,  I  should  not 
like  to  trust  you  to  Saladin.  I  wonder  rf  your  mother  would 
let  me  have  Prince,  if  I  offer  her  a  better  horse  in  exchange. 
Perhaps  I  can  do  better  than  that.  We  will  see.' 

'  O  Basil,  you  must  not  get  another  horse  for  me  ! ' 

'  I  will  get  anything  I  like  for  you.' 

'  But  do  you  mean,  and  keep  Saladin  too  ? ' 

'  I  mean  that.    Saladin  is  necessary  to  me.' 

'  Then  don't  Basil.  I  can  tell  you,  people  will  say  you  are 
extravagant  if  you  have  two  horses.' 

'  I  cannot  help  people  talking  scandal.' 

'  No,  but  it  will  hurt  your  influence.' 

'  Well,  we  will  feel  the  pulse  of  the  public  to-morrow. 
But  I  think  they  would  stand  it.' 

They  drove  down  to  Mrs.  Starling's  the  next  day.  Mr. 
Masters  had  other  business  and  must  go  further.  Diana  went 


288  DIANA. 

in  alone.  She  was  early,  for  she  had  come  to  help  her 
mother  make  the  preparations  ;  and  at  first  these  engrossed 
them  both. 

'  Well,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  when  some  time  had  passed, 
— 'how  do  you  get  along  with  your  husband? ' 

Diana's  eyes  opened  slightly.  '  It  would  be  a  very  strange 
person  that  could  not  get  on  with  Mr.  Masters,'  she  an- 
swered. 

'  Easy,  is  he  ?  I  hate  easy  men  !  The  best  of  'em  are 
helpless  enough  ;  but  when  you  get  one  of  the  easy  soft, 
they  are  consented  if  every  door  hangs  on  one  hinge.' 

Diana  made  no  answer. 

'  How  does  your  girl  get  along  ? 

'  Very  well.     Pretty  well.' 

'  What  you  want  with  a  girl,  I  don't  see.' 

'  I  didn't  either.  But  Mr.  Masters  wants  me  to  do  other 
things.' 

'  Set  you  up  to  be  a  lady !  Well,  the  world's  full  o' 
fools.' 

'  I  am  as  busy,  mother,  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life.' 

'  Depends  on  what  you  call  business.  Making  yourself 
unfit  for  business,  I  should  say.  Call  it  what  you  like.  I 
suppose  he  is  your  humble  servant,  and  just  gives  you  your 
own  way.' 

'  He  is  not  that  sort  of  man  at  all,  mother.  He  is  as 
kind  as  he  can  be ;  but  he  is  nobody's  humble  servant.' 

'  Then  I  suppose  you  are  his.  There  is  somebody  now, 
Diana ;  it's  Kate  Boddington.  Do  go  i-n  and  take  care  of 
her — you  can  do  so  much, — and  keep  her  from  coming  out 
here  where  I  am.' 

'  Well,  Di ! '  exclaimed  her  relative  as  Diana  met  her. 
'Ain't  it  a  sight  to  see.  you  at  the  sewin'  meetin' !  Why 
haven't  you  been  before  ?  Seems  to  me,  you  make  an  un- 
common long  honeymoop  of  it.' 


THE    MINISTERS    WIFE.  289 

Diana's  natural  sweetness  and  dignity,  and  further- 
more, the  great  ballast  of  old  pain  and  new  gladness  which 
lay  deep  down  in  her  heart,  kept  her  quite  steady  and  un- 
ruffled under  all  such  breezes.  She  had  many  of  the  like 
to  meet  that  day ;  and  the  sweet  calm  and  poise  of  her 
manner  through  them  all  would  have  done  honour  to  the 
most  practrsed  woman  of  the  world.  Most  of  her  friends 
and  neighbours  here  collected  had  scarce  seen  her  since  her 
marriage,  unless  in  church  ;  and  they  were  curious  to 
know  how  she  would  carry  herself,  and  curious  in  general 
about  many  things.  It  was  a  sort  of  battery  that  Diana 
had  to  face,  and  sometimes  a  masked  battery ;  but  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  whether  a  shot  hit. 

'What  I  want  to  know,' said  Mrs.  Boddington, — 'is, 
where  the  minister  and  you  made  it  up,  Di.  You  were 
awful  sly  about  it ! ' 

'  Ain't  that  so  ? '  chimed  in  Mrs.  Carpenter.  '  I  never 
had  no  notion  o'  what  was  goin'  on  ; — not  the  smallest 
idee ;  and  I  was  jest  a  sayin'  one  day  to  Miss  Gunn,  or 
somebody — I  declare  I  don't  know  now  who  'twas,  I  was 
so  dumbfounded  when  the  news  come,  it  took  all  my 
memory  away ; — but  I  was  jes'  a  sayin'  to  somebody,  and 
I  remember  it  because  I'd  jes'  been  after  dandelion  greens 
and  couldn't  find  none ;  they  was  jest  about  past  by  then, 
and  bitter  ;  and  we  was  a  settin'  with  our  empty  baskets  : 
and  I  was  jes'  tellin'  somebody,  I  don't  know  who  'twas, 
who  I  thought  would  make  a  good  wife  for  the  minister ; 
when  up  comes  Mrs.  Starling's  Josiah  and  reaches  me  the 
invitation.  "  There  !  "  says  I ;  "if  he  ain't  a  goin'  to  have 
Diana  Starling!  "  I  was  beat.' 

'  I  dare  say  you  could  have  fitted  him  just  as  well,' 
remarked  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Wall,  I  don't  know.  I  was  thinkin', — but  I  guess 
it's  as  well  not  to  say  now  what  I  was  thinkin'.' 


'  That  so  ! '  assented  Miss  Barry.  '  I  don't  believe  he 
thinks  nobody  could  ha'  chosen  for  him  no  better  than  he 
has  chosen  for  himself.' 

'  Men  never  do  know  what  is  good  for  them,'  Mrs. 
Salter  remarked,  but  not  ill-naturedly ;  on  the  contrary, 
there  was  a  gleam  of  fun  in  her  face. 

'  I'm  thankful  anyway  he  hain't  done  worse,'  said  an- 
other lady.  '  I  used  to  be  afraid  he  would  go  and  get  him- 
self hitched  to  a  fly-away.' 

'  Euphemie  Knowlton  ? '  said  Mrs.  Salter.  '  Yes,  I 
used  to  wonder  if  we  shouldn't  get  our  minister's  wife 
from  Elmfield.  It  looked  likely  at  one  time.' 

'  Those  two  wouldn't  ha'  pulled  well  together,  ne — ver,' 
said  another. 

'  I  should  like  to  know  how  he  and  Di's  goin'  to  pull 
together  ? '  said  Mrs.  Flandin  acidly.  '  He  goin'  one  way, 
and  she  another.' 

'  Do  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Flandin  ? '  asked  the  lady  thus, 
in  a  very  uncomplimentary  manner,  referred  to. 

'  Wall — ain't  it  true  ? '  said  Mrs.  Flandin  judicially. 

'  I  do  not  think  it  is  true.' 

'Wall,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  I'm  sure,'  said  the  other  ; 
'but  there's  a  word  in  the  Scriptur  about  two  walking 
together  when  they  ain't  agreed.' 

'  Mr.  Masters  and  I  are  agreed, — '  said  Diana,  while 
her  lips  parted  in  a  very  slight  smile  and  a  lovely  tinge  of 
rose-colour  came  over  her  cheeks. 

'  But  not  in  everything,  I  reckon  ? ' 

'  In  everything  I  know,' — said  Diana  steadily,  while  a 
-  considerable  breeze  of  laughter  went  round  the  room. 
Mrs.  Flandin  was  getting  the  worst  of  it. 

'  Then  it'll  be  the  worse  for  him  ! '  she  remarked  with 
a  jerk  at  her  sewing.  Diana  was  silent  now,  but  Mrs. 
Boddington  took  it  up. 


THE    MINISTERS    WIFE.  2QI 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Mis'  Flandin,  you  approve  of 
quarrels  between  man  and  wife  ?  and  quarrels  in  high 
places  too  ? ' 

'  High  places  ! '  echoed  Mrs.  Flandin.  '  When  it  says 
that  a  minister  is  to  be  the  servant  of  all ! ' 

1  And  ain't  he  ? '  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.  '  Is  there  a  place 
or  a  thing  our  minister  don't  go  to  if  he's  wanted  ?  and 
does  he  mind  whether  it's  night  or  day,  or  rough  or  smooth, 
and  does  he  care  how  fur  it  is,  or  how  long  he  goes  with- 
out his  victuals  ?  I  will  say,  I  never  did  see  a  no  more 
self-forgetful  man  than  is  Mr.  Masters;  and  I've  a  good 
right  to  know,  and  I  say  it  with  feelin's  of  gratitude.' 

'That's  jes'  so,'  said  Miss  Barry,  her  eyes  glistening 
over  her  knitting,  which  they  did  not  need  to  watch.  And 
there  was  a  hum  of  assent  through  the  room. 

'  I'm  not  sayin'  nothin'  agin  him,'  said  Mrs.  Flandin  in 
an  injured  manner;  'but  what  I  was  hintin'  I  warn't 
sayin'  nothin',  is  that  he's  married  a ' 

'  A  beauty — '  said  Mrs.  Boddington. 

'  I  don't  set  no  count  on  beauty,'  said  the  other.  '  I 
allays  think,  ef  a  minister  is  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  and  I 
hope  Mr.  Masters  is,  it's  a  pity  his  wife  shouldn't  be  too. 
That's  all.' 

'  But  I  am,  Mrs.  Flandin,'  said  Diana  quietly. 

'  What  ? ' 

'  A  servant  of  the  Lord.' 

'  Since  when  ? '  demanded  the  other  incredulously. 

'  Does  it  matter,  since  when  ? '  said  Diana,  with  a  calm 
gentleness  which  spoke  for  her.  '  I  was  not  always  so, 
but  I  am  now.' 

'  Hev'  you  met  with  a  change  ? '  the  other  asked,  again 
judicially,  and  critically. 

'  Yes.' 


292  DIANA. 

'  Ain't  that  good  news,  now ! '  said  Miss  Barry  dropping 
her  knitting  and  fairly  wiping  her  eyes. 

'  I  hope  your  evidences  is  clear,'  said  the  other  lady. 

'  Do  you  want  to  hear  what  they  are  ? '  said  Diana.  '  I 
have  come  to  know  the  Lord  Jesus — I  have  come  to  be- 
lieve in  him — I  have  given  myself  to  be  his  servant.  As 
truly  his  servant,  though  not  so  good  a  one,  as  my  husband 
is.  But  what  he  bids  me,  I'll  do.' 

The  little  assembly  was  silent,  silent  all  round.  Both 
the  news  and  the  manner  of  the  teller  of  it  were  impos- 
ing. Decided,  clear,  calm,  sweet,  Diana's  grey  eyes  as 
well  as  her  lips  gave  her  testimony ;  they  did  not  shrink 
from  other  eyes,  nor  droop  in  hesitation  or  difficulty  ;  as 
little  was  there  a  line  of  daring  or  self-assertion  about 
them.  The  dignity  of  the  woman  struck  and  hushed  her 
companions. 

'  Our  minister  '11  be  a  happy  man,  I'm  thinkin','  said 
good  Mrs.  Carpenter,  speaking  out  what  was  the  secret 
thought  of  many  present. 

'You  haven't  joined  the  church,  Diana,'  said  Mrs. 
Starling  harshly. 

'  I  will  do  that  the  first  opportunity,  mother.' 

'  That's  your  husband's  doing.  I  allays  knew  he'd  wile 
a  bird  off  a  bush  ! ' 

'  I  am  very  thankful  to  him' — said  Diana  calmly. 

That  calm  of  hers  was  unapproachable.  It  would 
neither  take  offence  nor  give  it ;  although  it  is  true  it  did 
irritate  some  of  her  neighbours  and  companions  by  the  very 
distance  it  put  between  them  and  her.  Diana  was  differ- 
ent from  them,  and  growing  more  different ;  yet  it  was 
hard  to  find  fault.  She  was  so  handsome  too  ;  that  helped 
the  effect  of  superiority ;  and  her  dress,  what  was  there 
about  her  dress  ?  It  was  a  pale  lilac  muslin,  no  way  re- 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  293 

markable  in  itself  ;  but  it  fell  around  lines  so  soft  and  noble, 
and  about  so  queenly  a  carriage,  it  waved  with  so  quiet 
and  graceful  motions  ;  there  was  a  temptation  to  think  Di- 
ana must  have  called  in  dressmaking  aid  that  was  not  law- 
ful— for  the  minister's  wife.  As  the  like  often  happens,  Di- 
ana was  set  apart  by  a  life-long  sorrow  from  all  their  world 
of  experience, — and  they  thought  she  was  proud. 

'  What  did  you  pay  for  that  muslin,  Diana  ? '  Mrs.  Flan- 
din  asked. 

'  Fifteenpence.' 

'  Du  tell !  well  I  should  ha'  thought  it  was  more,'  re- 
marked Miss  Gunn.  '  It's  made  so  elegant.' 

'  I  made  it  myself,'  said  Diana  smiling. 

'  Du  tell !  '  said  Miss  Gunn  again,  reviewing  the  gown. 
For,  as  I  hinted,  its  draperies  were  graceful,  their  lovely 
lines  being  unbroken  by  furbelows  and  flummery  ;  and  the 
sleeves  were  open  and  half  long  with  a  full  ruffle  which  fell 
away  from  Diana's  beautiful  arms. 

'  How  Phemie  Knowlton  used  to  dress  ! '  Miss  Gunn 
went  on,  moved  by  some  hidden  association  of  ideas. 

'  I  wonder  is  nobody  ever  comin'  back  to  Elmfield  ? ' 
said  Mrs.  Boddington.  '  They  don't  do  nothin'  with  the 
place,  and  it's  just  waste.' 

The  talk  wandered  on  ;  but  Diana's  thoughts  remained 
fixed.  They  had  flown  back  over  the  two  years  since 
Evan  and  she  had  their  explanation  in  the  blackberry  field, 
and  for  a  little  while  she  sat  in  a  dream,  feeling  the  stings 
of  pain  that  seemed,  she  thought,  to  grow  more  lively  now, 
instead  of  less.  The  coming  in  of  Mr.  Masters  roused  her, 
and  with  a  sort  of  start  she  put  away  the  thought  of  Evan 
and  of  days  and  joys  past  for  ever,  and  forcibly  swung  her- 
self back  to  present  things.  People  were  very  well-behaved! 
after  her  husband  came,  and  she  did  her  part,  she  knew, 


294  DIANA. 

satisfactorily;  for  she  saw  his  eye  now  and  then  resting  on 
her  or  meeting  her's  with  the  hidden  smile  in  it  she  had 
learned  to  know.  And  besides,  nothing  was  ever  dull 
or  commonplace  where  he  was ;  so  even  in  Mrs.  Starling's 
house  and  Mrs.  Flandin's  presence  the  rest  of  the  evening 
went  brightly  off.  And  then,  driving  home,  through  the 
light  of  a  young  moon  and  over  the  quiet  country,  Diana 
watched  the  wonderful  calm  line  where  the  hill-tops  met 
the  sky ;  and  thought,  surely,  with  the  talisman  she  had 
just  found,  of  heavenly  love  and  sympathy  and  strength, 
she  could  walk  the  rest  of  her  way  through  life  and  bear 
it  till  the  end.  Then,  by  and  by,  beyond  that  dividing 
line  of  eternity,  there  would  be  bright  heaven,  instead  of 
the  dusky  earth.  If  only  she  could  prevent  Basil  from 
knowing  how  she  felt  and  so  losing  all  peace  in  life  him- 
self. But  his  peace  was  so  fixed  in  heaven,  she  wondered 
if  anything  on  earth  could  destroy  it  ?  She  would  not  try 
that  question. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
MISS    COLLINS'   WORK. 

IT  was  well  for  Diana  that  she  had  got  a  talisman,  of  bet- 
ter power  than  the  world  can  manufacture.  It  was  well  for 
her  too  that  she  followed  up  earnestly  the  clue  to  life  which 
had  been  given  her.  If  you  have  a  treasure  house  of  sup- 
plies, and  are  going  to  have  to  get  to  it  in  the  dark  by 
and  by,  it  is  good  to  learn  the  way  very  well  while  the  light 
is  there.  For  weeks  Diana  gave  herself  before  all  other 
things  to  the  study  of  her  Bible  and  to  better  understanding 
of  faith's  duties  and  privileges.  In  all  this  Basil  was  a  great 
help  ;  and  daily  his  wife  learned  more  and  more  to  admire 
and  revere  the  mind  and  temper  of  the  man  she  had  mar- 
ried. Reverence  would  have  led  surely  to  love,  in  such  a 
nature  as  Diana's  ;  but  Diana's  heart  was  preoccupied. 
What  love  could  not  do,  however,  conscience  and  gratitude 
did  as  far  as  possible.  Nothing  that  concerned  Basil's 
comfort  or  honour  was  uncared  for  by  his  wife.  So  among 
other  things,  she  never  intrusted  the  care  of  his  meals 
entirely  to  Miss  Collins  ;  and  quite  to  that  lady's  discom- 
fiture, would  often  come  into  the  kitchen  and  prepare  some 
nice  dish  herself,  or  superintend  the  preparation  of  it.  Miss 
Collins  resented  this.  She  shared  the  opinion  of  some  of 
the  ladies  of  the  sewing  society,  that  Mrs.  Masters  was  quite 
proud  and  needed  to  be  "  taken  down  "  a  bit ;  and  if  she  got  a 
good  chance,  she  had  it  in  her  mind  to  do  a  little  of  the 
"  taking  down  "  herself. 

295 


296  DIANA. 

It  was  one  evening  late  in  September.  Frosts  had 
hardly  set  in  yet,  and  every  change  in  the  light  and  colour 
carried  Diana's  mind  back  to  Evan  and  two  years  ago,  and 
mornings  and  evenings  of  that  time  which  were  so  filled 
with  nameless  joys  and  hopes.  Diana  did  not  give  herself 
to  these  thoughts  nor  encourage  them ;  they  came  with  the 
suddenness  and  the  start  of  lightning.  Merely  the  colour 
of  a  hill  at  sunset  was  enough  to  flash  back  her  thoughts 
to  an  hour  when  she  was  looking  for  Evan  ;  or  a  certain 
sort  of  starlight  night  would  recall  a  particular  walk  along 
the  meadow  fence  ;  or  a  gust  and  whiff  of  the  wind  would 
bring  with  it  the  thrill  that  belonged  to  one  certain  stormy 
September  night  that  never  faded  in  her  remembrance.  Or 
the  smell  of  coffee  sometimes,  when  it  was  just  at  a  certain 
stage  of  preparation,  would  turn  her  heart  sick.  These  as- 
sociations and  remembrances  were  countless  and  incessant 
always  under  the  reminders  of  the  September  light  and  at- 
mosphere ;  and  Diana  could  not  escape  from  them,  though 
as  soon  as  they  came  she  put  them  resolutely  away. 

This  evening  Mr.  Masters  was  out.  Diana  knew  he 
had  gone  a  long  ride  and  would  be  tired,  that  is,  if  he  ever 
could  be  tired,  and  would  be  certainly  ready  for  his  supper 
when  he  came  in.  So  she  went  out  to  make  ready  a  cer- 
tain dish  of  eggs  which  she  knew  he  liked.  Such  service 
as  this  she  could  do,  and  she  did.  There  was  no  thought- 
ful care,  no  smallest  observance  which  could  have  been 
rendered  by  the  most  devoted  affection,  which  Diana  did 
not  give  to  her  husband.  Except, — she  never  offered  a  kiss, 
or  laid  her  hand  in  his  or  upon  his  shoulder.  Happily  for 
her,  Basil  was  not  a  particularly  demonstrative  man ;  for 
every  caress  from  him  was  "  as  vinegar  upon  nitre  ; "  she 
did  not  shew  repulsion,  that  was  all. 

'  I  guess  I  kin  do  that,  Mis'  Masters,'  said  her  hand- 


MISS    COLLINS     WORK.  2Q/ 

maid,  who  always  preferred  to  keep  the  kitchen  for  her  own 
domain.  Diana  made  no  answer.  She  wa-s  slowly  and 
delicately  peeling  her  eggs,  and  probably  did  not  notice 
the  remark.  Miss  Collins,  however,  resented  the  neglect. 

'  Mr.  Masters  is  gone  a  great  deal.  It's  sort  o'  lone- 
some up  here  on  the  hill.  Dreadfully  quiet,  don't  you 
think  it  is  ? ' 

'  I  like  quiet,'  Diana  answered  absently. 

'  Du,  hey  ?  Wall,  I  allays  liked  life.  I  never  could  git 
too  much  o'  that.  I  should  like  a  soldier's  life  uncommon, 
— if  I  was  a  man.' 

Diana  had  finished  peeling  her  eggs,  and  now  began  to 
wash  a  bunch  of  green  parsley  which  she  had  fetched  from 
the  garden,  daintily  dipping  it  up  and  down  in  a  bowl  of 
spring-water. 

'  It  was  kind  o'  lively  down  to  the  post  office,'  Miss 
Collins  remarked  again,  eyeing  the  beautiful  half-bared 
arm  and  the  whole  figure,  which  in  its  calm  elegance  was 
both  imposing  and  irritating  to  her.  Miss  Collins  indeed 
had  a  very  undefined  sense  of  the  beautiful ;  yet  she  vague- 
ly knew  that  nobody  else  in  Pleasant  Valley  looked  so  or 
carried  herself  so ;  no  other  woman's  dress  adorned  her  so, 
or  was  so  set  off  by  the  wearer  ;  although  Diana's  present 
attire  was  a  very  simply  made  print  gown  ;  not  even  the 
stylish  ladies  of  Elmfield  produced  an  equal  effect  with 
their  French  dresses.  And  was  not  Diana  "  Mis'  Star- 
ling's daughter  ?  "  And  Diana  seemed  not  to  hear  or  care 
what  she  had  to  say ! 

'  Everybody  comes  to  the  post  office,'  she  went  on  grim- 
ly ;  '  you  hev'  only  to  watch,  and  you  see  all  the  folks  ;  and 
you  know  all  that  is  goin'  on.  An',  that  suits  me  'xactly.' 

'But  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  post  office,'  said 
Diana.  '  How  could  you  see  everybody  ? ' 


2Q8  DIANA. 

'  You  keep  your  eyes  open,  and  you'll  see  things,  most 
places,'  said  Miss  Collins.  '  La  !  I  used  to  be  in  and  out ; 
why  shouldn't  I  ?  And  now  and  then  I'd  say  to  Miss 
Gunn — "  You're  jest  fagged  out  with  standin'  upon  your 
feet  ;  you  jes'  go  in  there  and  sit  down  by  the  fire  and 
don't  let  the  pot  bile  over  and  put  it  out ;  and  I'll  see  to 
the  letters  and  the  folks."  And  so  she  did,  and  so  I  did.  It 
was  as  good  as  a  play.' 

'  How? '  said  Diana,  feeling  a  vague  pain  at  the  thought 
of  the  post  office  ;  that  place  where  her  hopes  had  died. 
Somehow  there  was  a  vague  dread  in  her  heart  also,  with- 
out any  reason. 

'  Wall — you  git  at  folks'  secrets — if  they  have  any,'  Miss 
Collins  answered,  suddenly  checking  her  flow  of  words. 
Diana  did  not  ask  again  ;  the  subject  was  disagreeable. 
She  began  to  cut  up  her  parsley  deftly  with  a  sharp  knife ; 
and  her  handmaid  stood  and  looked  at  her. 

'  Some  folks  thought,  you  know,  at  one  time,  that  Mr. 
Masters  was  courtin'  Phemie  Knowlton.  I  didn't  let  on, 
but  la  !  I  knowed  it  warn't  so.  Why  there  warn't  never  a 
letter  come  from  her  to  him,  nor  went  from  him  to  her.' 

'  She  was  here  herself,'  said  Diana ;  '  why  should  they 
write  ?  You  could  tell  nothing  by  that.' 

'  She  warn't  here  after  she  had  gone  away,'  said  Miss 
Collins  ;  '  and  that  was  jes'  the  time  when  I  knowed  all 
about  it.  I  knowed  about  other  people  too.' 

That  was  also  the  time  after  Evan  had  quitted  Pleasant 
Valley.  Yet  Diana  did  not  know  why  she  could  not  keep 
herself  from  trembling.  If  Evan  had  written,  then,  this 
Jemima  Collins  and  her  employer,  Miss  Gunn,  would  have 
known  it  and  drawn  their  conclusions.  Well,  they  had  no 
data  to  go  upon  now. 

'  Bring  me  a  little  saucepan,  Jemima,  will  you  ? ' 


MISS    COLLINS     WORK.  299 

Jemima  brought  it.  Now  her  mistress  (but  she  never 
called  her  so)  would  be  away  and  off  in  a  minute  or  two 
more,  and  leave  her  to  watch  the  saucepan,  she  knew,  and 
her  opportunity  would  be  over.  Still  she  waited  to  choose 
her  words. 

'  You  ain't  so  fond  o'  life  as  I  be,'  she  observed. 

'Perhaps  not,'  said  Diana.  'I  do  not  think  I  should 
like  a  situation  in  the  post  office.' 

'  But  I  should  ha'  thought  you'd  ha'  liked  to  go  all 
over  the  world  and  see  everything.  Now  Pleasant  Valley 
seems  to  me  something  like  a  corner.  Why  didn't  you  ? ' 

'Why  didn't  I  what?'  said  Diana,  standing  up.  She 
had  been  stooping  down  over  her  saucepan  which  now  sat 
upon  a  little  bed  of  coals. 

'  La  !  you  needn't  look  at  me  like  that,'  said  Miss  Col- 
lins chuckling.  '  It's  no  harm.  You  had  your  ch'ice,  and 
you  chose  it ;  only  /  would  have  took  the  other.' 

'  The  other  what  ?    What  would  you  have  taken  ? ' 

'  Wall,  I  don'  know,'  said  Miss  Collins ;  '  to  be  sure, 
one  never  doos  know  till  one  is  tried,  they  say ;  but  if  I 
had,  I  think  I  should  ha'  took  'tother  one.' 

'  I  do  not  understand  you,'  said  Diana  walking  off  to 
the  table,  where  she  began  to  gather  up  the  wrecks  of  the 
parsley  stems.  She  felt  an  odd  sensation  of  cold  about  the 
region  of  her  heart,  physically  very  disagreeable. 

'  You  are  hard  to  make  understand  then,'  said  Miss 
Collins.  '  I  suppose  you  know  you  had  two  sweethearts, 
don't  you  ?  And  sure  enough  you  had  the  pick  of  the  lot. 
'Tain't  likely  you've  forgotten.' 

'  How  dare  you  speak  so  ? '  asked  Diana,  not  passion- 
ately, but  with  a  sort  of  cold  despair,  eying  her  handmaiden. 

'  Dare  ? '  said  the  latter.  '  Dare  what  ?  I  ain't  saying 
nothin'.  'Tain't  no  harm  to  have  two  beaux ;  you  chose 


3OO  DIANA. 

your  ch'ice,  and  he  hain't  no  cause  to  be  uncontented,  any- 
how. About  the  'tother  one  I  don't  say  nothin',  I  should 
think  he  was ;  but  that's  nat'ral.  I  s'pose  he's  got  over  it 
by  now.  You  needn't  stand  and  look.  He's  fur  enough 
off,  too.  Your  husband  wont  be  jealous.  You  knowed  you 
had  two  men  after  you.' 

'  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  say  that,'  Diana  repeated, 
standing  as  it  were  at  bay. 

'  How  I  come  to  know  ?  That's  easy.  Didn't  I  tell  you 
I  was  in  the  post  office  ?  La,  I  know,  I  see  the  letters.' 

'  Letters  ! '  cried  Diana,  in  a  tone  which  forthwith  made 
Miss  Collins  open  all  the  eyes  she  had.  It  was  not  a 
a  scream  ;  it  was  not  even  very  loud  ;  yet  Miss  Collins 
went  into  a  swift  calculation  to  find  out  what  was  in  it.  Be- 
yond her  ken,  happily;  it  was  a  heart's  death  cry. 

'  Yes,'  she  said  stolidly  ;  '  I  said  letters.  Ain't  much 
else  goin'  at  the  post  office,  'cept  letters  and  papers  ;  and  I 
ain't  one  o'  them  as  sets  no  count  by  the  papers.  La,  what 
do  I  care  for  the  news  at  Washington  ?  I  don't  know  the 
folks ;  they  may  all  die  or  get  married,  for  what  I  care  ; 
but  in  Pleasant  Valley  I  know  where  I  be,  and  I  know  who 
the  folks  be.  And  that's  what  made  me  allays  like  to  get 
a  chance  to  sort  the  letters,  or  hand  'em  out.' 

'  You  never  saw  many  letters  of  mine,'  said  Diana,  turn- 
ing away  to  hide  her  lips  which  she  felt  were  growing 
strange.  But  she  must  speak  ;  she  must  know  more. 

'  N — o,'  said  Miss  Collins  ;  '  not  letters  o'  your  writin,' 
— ef  you  mean  that.' 

'  Letters  of  mine  of  any  sort.     I  don't  get  many  letters.' 

'  Some  of  'em's  big  ones,  when  they  come,  My  !  didn't 
I  use  to  wonder  what  was  in  'em  !  Two  stamps,  and  three 
stamps.  I  s'pose  feelin's  makes  heavy  weight.'  Miss  Col- 
lins laughed  a  little. 


MISS    COLLINS     WORK.  3OI 

'  Two  stamps  and  three  stamps  ? '  said  Diana  fiercely  ; 
— '  how  many  were  there  ? ' 

'  I  guess  I  knowed  of  three.  Two  I  handed  out  o'  the 
box  myself ;  and  Miss  Gunn,  she  said  there  was  another. 
There  was  no  mistakin'  them  big  letters.  They  was  on  soft 
paper,  and  lots  o'  stamps,  as  I  said.' 

'  You  gave  them  out  ?  Who  to  ? ' 

'To  Mis'  Starlin'  herself.  I  mind  partic'lerly.  She 
come  for  'em  herself,  and  she  got  'em.  You  don't  mean 
she  lost  'em  on  her  way  hum  ?  They  was  postmarked  some 
queer  name,  but  they  come  from  Californy  ;  I  know  that. 
You  hain't  never  forgotten  'em  ?  I've  heerd  it's  good  to  be 
off  with  the  old  love  before  you  are  on  with  the  new ;  but 
I  never  heerd  o'  folks  forgettin'  their  love  letters.  La, 
'tain't  no  harm  to  have  love  letters.  Nobody  can  cast  that 
up  to  ye.  You  have  chosen  your  ch'ice,  and  it's  all  right. 
I  reckon  most  folks  would  be  proud  to  have  somebody  else 
thrown  over  for  them.' 

Diana  heard  nothing  of  this.  She  was  standing,  deaf 
and  blind,  seeming  to  look  out  of  the  window;  then  slow- 
ly, moved  by  some  instinct,  not  reason,  she  went  out  of  the 
kitchen  and  crept  up  stairs  to  her  own  room  and  laid  her- 
self upon  her  bed.  Deaf  and  blind  ;  she  could  neither 
think  nor  feel ;  she  only  thought  she  knew  that  she  was 
dead.  The  consciousness  of  the  truth  pressed  upon  her  to 
benumbing  ;  but  she  was  utterly  unable  to  separate  points 
or  look  at  the  connection  of  them.  She  had  lived  and  suf- 
fered before  ;  now  she  was  crushed  and  dead  ;  that  was  all 
she  knew.  She  could  not  even  measure  the  full  weight  of 
her  misery  ;  she  lay  too  prostrate  beneath  it. 

So  things  were,  when  very  shortly  after  the  minister 
came  in.  He  had  put  up  his  horse,  and  came  in  with  his 
day's  work  behind  him.  Diana's  little  parlour  was  bright, 


3O2  DIANA. 

for  a  smart  fire  was  blazing  ;  the  evenings  and  mornings 
were  cool  now  in  Pleasant  Valley;  and  the  small  table 
stood  ready  for  supper,  as  Diana  had  left  it.  She  was  up 
stairs,  probably  ;  and  up  stairs  he  went,  to  wash  his  hands 
and  get  re-acly  for  the  evening;  for  the  minister  was  the 
neatest  man  living.  There  he  found  Diana,  laid  upon  her 
bed,  where  nobody  ever  saw  her  in  the  day-time ;  and 
furthermore,  lying  with  that  nameless  something  in  all  the 
lines  of  her  figure  which  is  the  expression  not  of  pain  but 
of  despair ;  and  those  who  have  never  seen  it  before,  read 
it  at  first  sight.  How  it  should  be  despair,  of  course  the 
minister  had  no  clue  to  guess  ;  so  although  it  struck  him 
with  a  sort  of  strange  chill,  he  supposed  she  must  be  suf- 
fering from  some  bodily  ailment,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
nobody  had  ever  known  Diana  to  have  so  much  as  a  head- 
ache in  her  life  until  now.  Her  face  was  hid.  Basil 
went  up  softly  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  felt 
so  the  slight  convulsive  shiver  that  ran  over  her.  But  his 
inquiries  could  get  nothing  but  monosyllables  in  return ; 
hardly  that ;  rather  inarticulate  utterances  of  assent  or  dis- 
sent to  his  questions  or  proposals.  Was  she  suffering? 
Yes.  What  was  the  cause  ?  No  intelligible  answer. 
Would  she  not  come  down  to  tea  ?  No.  Would  she  have 
anything  ?  No.  Could  he  do  anything  for  her  ?  No. 

'  Diana,'  said  her  husband  tenderly,  '  is  it  bad  news  ? ' 

There  was  a  pause,  and  he  waited. 

'  Just  go  down,'  she  managed  with  great  difficulty  to 
say.  '  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  I'll  come  by 
and  by.  I'll  just  lie  still  a  little.' 

She  had  not  shewn  her  face,  and  the  minister  quietly 
withdrew,  feeling  that  here  was  more  than  appeared  on 
the  surface.  There  was  enough  appearing  on  the  surface 
to  make  him  uneasy  ;  and  he  paid  no  attention  to  Miss 


MISS    COLLINS     WORK.  303 

Collins,  who  brought  in  the  supper  and  bustled  about 
rather  more  than  was  necessary. 

'  Don't  ring  the  bell,  Jemina,'  Mr.  Masters  said.  '  Mrs. 
Masters  is  not  coming  down.' 

Miss  Collins  went  on  to  make  the  tea.  That  was  al- 
ways Diana's  business. 

'  What  ails  her  ?  she  asked  abruptly. 

'  You  ought  to  know,'  said  the  minister.  '  What  did  she 
complain  of.' 

'Complain  ! '  echoed  the  handmaiden.  '  She  was  as  well 
as  you  be,  not  five  minutes  afore  you  come  in. 

'  How  do  you  know  ? ' 

'  Guess  I  had  ought  to  !  Why  she  was  in  the  kitchen 
talkin'  and  fiddle-faddlin'  with  them  eggs ;  she  thinks  I 
ain't  up  to  'em.  There  warn't  nothin'  on  earth  the  matter 
with  her  then.  She  had  sot  the  table  in  here  and  fixed  up 
the  fire,  and  then  she  come  in  to  the  kitchen  and  went  to 
work  at  the  supper.  There  ain't  never  nothin'  the  matter 
with  her.' 

The  minister  made  no  sort  of  remark,  nor  put  any 
further  inquiry,  nor  looked  even  curious,  Miss  Collins 
however  did.  Her  brain  got  into  a  sudden  confusion  of 
possibilities.  Pouring  out  the  tea,  she  stood  by  the  table 
reflecting  what  she  should  say  next. 

'I  guess  she's  mad  at  me,'  she  began  slowly.  'Or 
maybe  she's  afeard  you'll  be  mad  with  her.  La  !  'tain't 
nothin'.  I  told  her,  you'd  never  be  jealous.  'Tain't  no 
harm  for  a  girl  to  have  two  beaux,  is  it  ? ' 

The  minister  gave  her  a  quick  look  from  under  his 
brows,  and  replied  calmly  that  he  '  supposed  not.' 

'  Wall,  I  told  her  so  ;  and  now  she's  put  out  'cause  I 
knowed  o'  them  letters.  La,  folks  that  has  the  post  office 
can't  help  but  know  more  o'  what  concerns  their  fellow 


3O4  DIANA. 

creatures  than  other  folks  doos.  I  handled  them  myself 
you  see,  and  handed  them  out ;  leastways  two  o'  them  j 
that  warn't  no  fault  o'  mine  nor  of  anybody's.  La,  she 
needn't  to  mind  ! ' 

'  How  much  tea  did  you  put  in,  Jemina  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Masters.  I  put  in  a  pinch.  Mrs. 
Masters  had  ought  to  ha'  been  here  to  make  it  herself. 
She  knows  how  you  like  it.' 

'  I  like  more  than  such  a  pinch  as  this  was.  If  you 
will  empty  the  tea-pot,  I  will  make  a  cup  for  myself.  That 
will  do,  thank  you.' 

Left  alone,  Mr.  Masters  sat  for  a  little  while  with  his 
head  on  his  hand,  neglecting  the  supper.  Then  he  roused 
himself  and  went  on  to  make  some  fresh  tea.  And  very 
carefully  and  nicely  he  made  it,  poured  out  a  cup  and  pre- 
pared it,  put  it  on  a  little  tray  then  and  carried  it  steaming 
and  fragrant  up  to  his  wife's  room.  Diana  was  lying  just 
as  he  had  left  her.  Mr.  Masters  shut  the  door,  and  came 
to  the  bedside. 

'  Di,'  said  he  gently,  '  I  have  brought  you  a  cup  of  tea.' 

There  was  neither  answer  nor  movement.  He  repeated 
his  words.  She  murmured  an  unintelligible  rejection  of 
the  proposal,  keeping  her  face  carefully  covered. 

'  No/  said  he,  '  I  think  you  had  better  take  it.  Lift  up 
your  head,  Di,  and  try.  It  is  good.' 

The  tone  was  tender  and  quiet,  nevertheless  Diana  had 
known  Mr.  Masters  long  enough  to  be  assured  that  when 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  a  thing,  there  was  no  bring- 
ing him  off  it.  She  would  have  to  take  the  tea ;  and  as 
he  put  his  hand  under  her  head  to  lift  her  up,  she  suffered 
him  to  do  it.  Then  he  saw  her  face.  Only  by  the  light 
of  a  candle  it  is  true  ;  but  that  revealed  more  than  enough. 
So  wan,  so  deathly  pale,  so  dark  in  the  lines  round  the 


MISS   COLLINS     WORK.  305 

eyes  and  those  indescribable  shadows  which  mental  pain 
brings  into  a  face,  that  her  husband's  heart  sank  down. 
No  small  matter,  easy  to  blow  away,  had  brought  his 
strong  beautiful  Diana  to  look  like  that.  But  his  face 
shewed  nothing;  though  indeed  she  never  looked  at  it; 
and  his  voice  was  clear  and  gentle  just  as  usual  in  the  few 
words  he  said.  He  held  the  cup  to  her  lips,  and  after  she 
had  drank  the  tea  and  lay  down  again,  he  passed  his  hand 
once  or  twice  with  a  tender  touch  over  her  brow  and  the 
disordered  hair.  Then,  with  no  more  questions  or  re- 
marks, he  took  away  the  candle  and  the  empty  cup,  and 
Diana  saw  him  no  more  that  night. 
20 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THINGS  UNDONE. 

THE  mischief-maker  slept  peacefully  till  morning.  No- 
body else.  Diana  did  not  keep  awake,  it  is  true  ;  she  was 
at  that  dull  stage  of  misery  when  something  like  stupor 
comes  over  the  brain ;  she  slumbered  heavily  from  time  to 
time.  Nature  does  claim  such  a  privilege  sometimes.  It 
was  Basil  who  watched  the  night  through  ;  watched  and 
prayed.  There  was  no  stupor  in  his  thoughts  ;  he  had  a 
very  full,  though  vague,  realization  of  great  evij  that  had 
come  upon  them  both.  He  was  very  near  the  truth,  too, 
after  an  hour  or  two  of  pondering.  Putting  Miss  Collins' 
hints,  Diana's  own  former  confessions,  and  her  present  con- 
dition together,  he  saw,  clearer  than  it  was  good  to  see,  the 
probable  state  of  affairs.  And  yet  he  was  glad  to  see  it ; 
if  any  help  or  bettering  was  ever  to  come,  it  was  desirable 
that  his  vision  should  be  true  and  his  wisdom  have  at  least 
firm  data  to  act  upon.  But  what  action  could  touch  the 
case  ?  the  most  difficult  that  a  man  can  have  to  deal  with. 
Through  the  night  Basil  alternately  walked  the  floor  and 
knelt  down,  sometimes  at  his  study  table,  sometimes  before 
the  open  window,  where  it  seemed  almost  as  if  he  could 
read  signs  of  that  invisible  sympathy  he  was  seeking.  The 
air  was  a  little  frosty,  but  very  still ;  he  kept  up  a  fire  in 
his  chimney,  and  Basil  was  not  one  of  those  ministers  who 
live  in  perpetual  terror  about  draughts ;  it  was  a  comfort 
306 


THINGS    UNDONE.  3O/ 

to  him  to-night  to  look  off  and  away  from  earth,  even 
though  he  could  not  see  into  heaven.  The  stars  were  wit- 
nesses to  him  and  for  him,  in  their  eternal  calmness.  "  He 
calleth  them  all  by  their  names ;  for  that  he  is  strong  in 
power,  not  one  faileth.  Why  sayest  thou,  O  Jacob,  and 
speakest,  O  Israel,  My  way  is  hid  from  the  Lord,  and  my 
judgment  is  passed  over  from  my  God  ? " — And  in  answer 
to  the  unspoken  cry  of  appeal  that  burst  forth  as  he  knelt 
there  by  the  window — "  O  Lord,  my  strength,  my  fortress, 
and  my  refuge  in  the  day  of  affliction  !  " — came  the  unspoken 
promise.  "  The  mountains  shall  depart,  and  the  hills  be  re- 
moved ;  but  my  kindness  shall  not  depart  from  thee,  neither 
shall  the  covenant  of  my  peace  be  removed,  saith  the  Lord 
that  hath  mercy  on  thee."  The  minister  had  something 
such  a  night  of  it  as  Jacob  had  before  his  meeting  with 
Esau  :  with  the  difference  that  there  was  no  lameness  left 
the  next  morning.  Before  the  dawn  came  up,  when  the 
stars  were  fading,  Basil  threw  himself  on  the  lounge  in  his 
study  and  went  into  a  sleep  as  deep  and  peaceful  as  his 
sleeps  were  wont  to  be.  And  when  he  rose  up,  after  some 
hours,  he  was  entirely  himself  again  ;  refreshed  and  re- 
stored and  ready  for  duty.  Neither  could  anybody,  that 
day  or  afterwards,  see  the  slightest  change  in  him  from 
what  he  had  been  before. 

He  went  out  and  attended  to  his  horse ;  the  minister 
always  did  that  himself.  Then  came  in  and  changed  his 
dress  and  went  through  his  morning  toilet  with  the  usual 
dainty  care.  Then  he  went  in  to  see  Diana. 

She  had  awaked  at  last  out  of  her  slumberous  stupor  ; 
sorry  to  see  the  light  and  know  that  it  was  day  again.  An- 
other day  !  Why  should  there  be  another  day  for  her  ?  what 
use  ?  why  could  she  not  die  and  be  out  of  her  trouble?  An- 
other day  !  and  now  would  come,  had  come,  the  duties  of 


308  DIANA. 

it ;  how  was  she  to  meet  them  ?  how  could  she  do  them  ? 
life  energy  was  gone.  She  was  dead  ;  how  was  she  to  play 
the  part  of  the  living,  and  among  the  living  ?  What  mock- 
ery !  And  Basil,  what  would  become  of  him  ?  As  for  Evan, 
Diana  dared  not  so  much  in  her  thoughts  as  even  to  glance 
his  way.  She  had  risen  half  up  in  bed,  she  had  not  un- 
dressed at  all,  and  was  sitting  with  her  arms  slung  round 
her  knees,  gazing  at  the  daylight  and  wondering  vaguely 
about  all  these  things  ;  when  the  door  between  the  rooms 
swung  lightly  open.  If  she  had  dared,  Diana  would  have 
crouched  down  and  hid  her  face  again  ;  she  was  afraid  to 
do  that ;  she  sat  stolidly  still,  gazing  out  at  the  window. 
Look  at  Basil  she  could  not.  His  approach  filled  her  with 
so  great  a  feeling  of  repulsion  that  she  would  have  liked  to 
spring  from  the  bed  and  flee, — anywhere,  away  and  away, 
where  she  would  see  him  no  more.  No  such  flight  was  pos 
sible.  She  sat  motionless  and  stared  at  the  window,  keep- 
ing down  the  internal  shiver  which  ran  over  her. 

Basil  came  with  his  light  quick  step  and  stood  beside 
her  ;  took  her  hand  and  felt  her  pulse. 

'  You  are  not  feeling  very  well,  Di,'  he  said  gravely. 

'Well  enough, — '  said  Diana.  'I  will  get  up  and  be 
down  presently.' 

'Will  you  ? '  said  he.  '  Now  I  think  you  had  better  not. 
The  best  thing  you  can  do  will  be  to  lie  still  here  and  keep 
quiet  all  day.  May  I  prescribe  for  you  ? ' 

'Yes.  I  will  do  what  you  please/  said  Diana.  She 
never  looked  at  him,  and  he  knew  it. 

'Then  this  is  what  I  think  you  had  better  do.  Get  up 
and  take  a  bath  ;  then  put  on  your  dressing  gown  and  lie 
down  again.  You  shall  have  your  breakfast  up  here — and  I 
will  let  nobody  come  up  to  disturb  you.' 

'  I'm  not  hungry.     I  don't  want  anything.' 


THINGS    UNDONE.  309 

'  You  are  a  little  feverish — but  you  will  be  better  for 
taking  something.  Now  you  get  your  bath, — and  I'll  attend 
to  the  breakfast.' 

He  kissed  her  brow  gravely,  guessing  that  she  would 
rather  he  did  not,  but  knowing  nevertheless  that  he  might 
and  must ;  for  he  was  her  husband,  and  however  gladly  she, 
and  unselfishly  he,  would  have  broken  the  relation  between 
them,  it  subsisted  and  could  not  be  broken.  And  then  he 
went  down  stairs. 

'  Where's  Mis'  Masters  ? '  demanded  Jemima  when  she 
brought  in  the  breakfast-tray,  standing  attention. 

'  Not  coming  down.' 

'  Ain't  anything  ails  her,  is  there  ? ' 

'  Yes.  But  I  don't  know  how  serious.  Give  me  the  ket- 
tle, Jemima ;  I  told  her  to  lie  still  and  that  I  would  bring 
her  a  cup  of  tea.' 

'  I'll  take  it  up,  Mr.  Masters  ;  and  you  can  eat  your 
breakfast.' 

'  Thank  you.  I  always  like  to  keep  my  promises.  Fetch 
in  the  kettle,  Jemima.' 

Jemima  dared  not  but  obey.  So  when  Diana,  between 
dead  and  alive,  had  done  as  she  was  bid  ;  taken  her  bath, 
and  wrapped  in  her  dressing-gown  was  laid  upon  her  bed 
again  ;  her  husband  made  his  appearance  with  a  little  tray 
and  the  tea.  There  had  been  a  certain  bodily  refreshment 
about  the  bath  and  the  change  of  dress,  but  with  that  little 
touch  of  the  everyday  work  of  life  there  had  come  such  a 
rebellion  against  life  in  general  and  all  that  it  held,  that 
Diana  was  nearly  desperate.  In  place  of  dull  despair,  had 
come  a  wild  repulsion  against  everything  that  was  left  her 
in  the  world  ;  and  yet  the  girl  knew  that  she  would  neither 
die  nor  go  mad,  but  must  just  live  and  bear.  She  looked 
at  Basil  and  his  tray  with  a  sort  of  impatient  horror. 


3IO  DIANA. 

'  I  don't  want  anything! '  she  said.  '  I  don't  want  any- 
thing ! ' 

'  Try  the  tea.     It  is  out  of  the  green  chest.' 

Diana  had  learned,  as  I  said,  to  know  her  husband 
pretty  well  ;  and  she  knew  that  though  the  tone  in  which  he 
spoke  was  very  quiet,  and  for  all  a  certain  sweet  insistence 
in  it  could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  urging,  nevertheless 
there  was  under  it  something  to  which  she  must  yield. 
His  will  never  had  clashed  with  hers  once  ;  nevertheless 
Diana  had  seen  and  known  that  whatever  Basil  wanted  to 
do  with  anybody,  he  did.  Everybody  granted  it  to  him, 
somehow.  So  did  she  now.  She  raised  herself  up  and 
tasted  the  tea. 

'  Eat  a  biscuit — .' 

'  I  don't  want  it.     I  don't  want  anything,  Basil.' 

'  You  must  eat  something,  though,'  said  he.  '  It  is  bad 
enough  for  me  to  have  to  carry  along  with  me  all  day  the 
thought  of  you  lying  here  ;  I  cannot  bear  in  addition  the 
thought  of  you  starving.' 

'  O  no  ;  I  am  not  starving,'  Diana  answered  ;  and  un- 
able to  endure  to  look  at  him  or  talk  to  him,  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  leaning  it  down  upon  her  knees- 
Basil  did  not  say  anything,  nor  did  he  go  away ;  he  stood 
beside  her,  with  an  outflow  of  compassion  in  his  heart,  but 
waiting  patiently.  At  last  touched  her  smooth  hair  with 
his  hand. 

'  Di,'  said  he  gently,  '  look  up  and  take  something.' 

She  hastily  removed  her  hands,  raised  her  head,  swal- 
lowed the  tea,  and  managed  to  swallow  the  biscuit  with  it. 
He  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her  brow  as  he  had  done 
last  night. 

'  Now  lie  down  and  rest,'  said  he.  '  I  must  ride  over  to 
Blackberry  hill  again — and  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  may 


THINGS   UNDONE.  311 

be  kept  there.  I  will  tell  Jemima  to  let  no  visiters  come 
up  to  bother  you.  Lie  still  and  rest.  I  will  give  you  a  pil- 
low for  your  thoughts,  Di. — "  Under  the  shadow  of  thy 
wings  will  I  make  my  refuge,  until  these  calamities  be  over- 
past." ' 

He  went  away  ;  and  Diana  covered  her  face  again. 
She  could  not  bear  the  light.  Her  whole  nature  was  in 
uproar.  The  bath  and  dressing,  the  tea,  her  husband's 
presence  and  words,  his  last  words  especially,  had  roused 
her  from  her  stupor,  and  given  her  as  it  were  a  scale  with 
which  to  measure  the  full  burden  of  her  misery.  There 
was  no  item  wanting,  Diana  thought,  to  make  it  utterly 
immeasurable  and  unbearable.  If  she  had  married  a  less 
good  man,  it  would  have  been  less  hard  to  spoil  all  his 
hopes  of  happiness  ;  if  he  had  been  a  weaker  man  she 
would  not  have  cared  about  him  at  all.  If  any  hand  but 
her  own  mother's  had  dashed  her  cup  of  happiness  out  of 
her  hand,  she  would  have  had  there  a  refuge  to  go  to. 
Most  girls  have  their  mothers.  If  Evan  had  not  been  sent 
to  so  distant  a  post — but  when  her  thoughts  dared  turn  to 
Evan,  Diana  writhed  upon  her  bed  in  tearless  agony.  Evan, 
writing  in  all  the  freshness  and  strength  of  his  love  and  his 
trust  in  her,  those  letters; — waiting  and  looking  for  her  an- 
swer ; — writing  again  and  again  ;  disappointed  all  the  while  ; 
and  at  last  obliged  to  conclude  that  there  was  no  faith  in 
her  and  that  her  love  had  been  a  sham,  or  a  fancy.  What 
had  he  not  suffered  on  her  account!  even  as  she  had  suf- 
fered for  him.  But  that  he  should  think  so  of  her  was  not 
to  be  borne  ;  she  would  write. — Might  she  write  ?  From 
hiding  her  head  on  her  pillow,  Diana  sat  bolt  upright"  now 
and  stared  at  the  light  as  if  it  could  tell  her.  Might  she 
write  to  Evan,  just  once,  this  once,  to  tell  him  how  it  had 
been  ?  Would  that  be  any  wrong  against  her  husband  ? 


3  I  2  DIANA. 

Would  Basil  have  any  right  to  forbid  her  ?  The  uneasy 
sense  of  doubt  here  was  met  by  a  furious  rebellion  against 
any  authority  that  would  interfere  with  her  doing  herself — 
as  she  said — so  much  justice,  and  giving  herself  and  Evan 
so  much  miserable  comfort.  Could  there  be  a  right  to 
hinder  her  ?  Suppose  she  were  to  ask  Basil  ? — But  what 
disclosures  that  would  involve  !  Would  he  bear  them,  or 
could  she  ?  Better  write  without  his  knowledge.  Then  on 
the  other  hand,  Basil  was  so  upright  himself,  so  true  and 
faithful,  and  trusted  her  so  completely.  No,  she  never 
could  deceive  his  trust,  not  if  she  died.  O  that  she  could 
die  !  But  Diana  knew  that  she  was  not  going  to  die.  Sup- 
pose she  charged  her  mother  with  what  she  had  done  and  get 
her  to  write  and  confess  it  ?  A  likely  thing,  that  Mrs.  Star- 
ling would  be  wrought  upon  to  make  such  a  humiliation  of 
herself  !  She  was  forced  to  give  up  that  thought.  And 
indeed  she  was  not  clear  about  the  essential  distinction 
between  communicating  directly  herself  with  Evan,  and 
getting  another  to  do  it  for  her.  And  what  had  been  Mrs. 
Starling's  motive  in  keeping  back  the  letters  ?  But  Diana 
knew  her  mother  and  that  problem  did  not  detain  her  long. 
For  hours  and  hours  Diana's  mind  was  like  a  stormy 
sea,  where  the  thunder  and  the  lightning  were  not  wanting 
any  more  than  the  wind.  Once  in  a  while  like  the  faint 
blink  of  a  sun-ray  through  the  clouds,  came  an  echo  of  the 
words  Basil  had  quoted — "  In  the  shadow  of  thy  wings 
will  I  make  my  refuge  " — but  they  hurt  her  so  that  she 
fled  from  them.  The  contrast  of  their  peace  with  her  tur- 
moil, of  their  intense  sweetness  with  the  bitter  passion 
which  was  wasting  her  heart ;  the  hint  of  that  harbour  for 
the  storm-tossed  vessel,  which  could  only  be  entered,  she 
knew,  by  striking  sail ;  all  that  was  unbearable.*  I  suppose 
there  was  a  whisper  of  conscience  too  which  said,  '  Strike 


THINGS    UNDONE.  313 

sail,  and  go  in  !  ' — while  passion  would  not  take  down  an 
inch  of  canvass.  Could  not,  she  said  to  herself.  Could 
she  submit  to  have  things  be  as  they  were  ?  submit,  and 
be  quiet,  and  accept  them,  and  go  her  way  accepting  them, 
and  put  the  thought  of  Evan  away,  and  live  the  rest  of 
her  life  as  though  he  had  no  existence  ?  That  was  the 
counsel  Basil  would  give,  she  had  an  unrecognized  con- 
sciousness ;  and  for  the  present,  pain  was  easier  to  bear 
than  that.  And  now  memory  flew  back  over  the  years, 
and  took  up  again  the  thread  of  her  relations  with  Evan, 
and  traced  them  to  their  beginning,  and  went  over  all  the 
ground  going  back  and  forward,  recalling  every  meeting 
and  reviewing  every  one  of  those  too  scanty  hours.  For 
a  long  while  she  had  not  been  able  to  do  this,  because 
Evan,  she  thought,  had  been  faithless,  and  in  that  case  she 
really  never  had  had  what  she  thought  she  had  in  him. 
Now  she  knew  he  was  not  faithless,  and  she  had  got  the 
time  and  him  back  again,  and  she  in  a  sort  revelled  in  the 
consciousness.  And  with  that  came  then  the  thought, 
'  Too  late  ! ' — She  had  got  him  again  only  to  see  an  im- 
passable barrier  set  between  which  must  keep  them  apart 
forever.  And  that  barrier  was  her  husband.  What  the 
thought  of  Basil,  or  rather  what  his  image  was  to  Diana 
that  day,  it  is  difficult  to  tell  \  she  shunned  it  whenever  it 
appeared,  with  an  intolerable  mingling  of  contradictory 
feelings.  Her  fate, — and  yet  more  like  a  good  angel  to 
her  than  anybody  that  had  ever  crossed  the  line  of  her 
path ;  the  destroyer  of  her  hope  and  joy  for  ever, — and 
yet  one  to  whom  she  was  bound  and  to  whom  she  owed 
all  possible  duty  and  affection  ;  she  wished  it  were  possi- 
ble never  to  see  him  again  in  the  world,  and  at  the  same 
time  the^e  was  not  another  in  the  world  of  whom  she  be- 
lieved all  the  good  she  believed  of  him.  His  image  was 


3 14  DIANA. 

dreadful  to  her.  Basil  was  the  very  centre  point  of  her 
agonized  struggles  that  day.  To  be  parted  from  Evan  she 
could  have  borne,  if  she  might  have  devoted  herself  to  the 
memory  of  him  and  lived  in  quiet  sorrow  ;  but  to  put  this 
man  in  his  place  ! — to  belong  to  him,  to  be  his  wife. — 

In  proportion  to  the  strength  and  health  of  Diana's 
nature  was  the  power  of  her  realization  and  the  force  of 
her  will.  But  also  the  possibility  of  endurance.  The  inter- 
nal fight  would  have  broken  down  a  less  pure  and  sound 
bodily  organization.  It  was  characteristic  of  this  natural 
soundness  and  sweetness,  which  was  mental  as  well  as 
physical,  that  her  mother's  part  in  the  events  which  had 
destroyed  her  happiness  had  very  little  of  her  attention 
that  day.  She  thought  of  it  with  a  kind  of  sore  wonder 
and  astonishment  in  which  resentment  had  almost  no 
share.  "  O  mother,  mother  !  " — she  said  in  her  heart ; 
but  she  said  no  more. 

Miss  Collins  came  up  once  or  twice  to  see  her,  but 
Diana  lay  quiet  and  was  able  to  baffle  curiosity. 

'  Are  ye  goin'  to  git  up  and  come  down  to  supper  ? ' 
the  handmaid  asked  in  the  second  visit,  which  occurred 
late  in  the  afternoon. 

'  I  don't  know.     I  shall  do  what  Mr.  Masters  says.' 

'  You  don't  look  as  ef  there  was  much  ailin'  you  ; — and 
yet  you  look  kind  o*  queer,  too.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit 
ef  you  was  a  gettin'  a  fever.  There's  a  red  spot  on  one  of 
your  cheeks  that's  like  fire.  '  T'other  one's  pale  enough. 
You  must  be  in  a  fever,  I  guess,  or  you  couldn't  lie  here 
with  the  window  open.' 

'  Leave  it  open — and  just  let  me  be  quiet.' 

Miss  Collins  went  down,  marvelling  to  herself.  But 
when  Basil  came  home  he  found  the  flush  spread  to  both 
cheeks  and  a  look  in  Diana's  eyes  that  he  did  not  like. 


THINGS    UNDONE.  $1$ 

'  How  has  the  day  been  ? '  he  asked,  passing  his  hand 
over  the  flushed  cheek  and  the  disordered  hair.  Diana 
shrank  and  shivered  and  did  not  answer.  He  felt  her 
pulse. 

'  Diana,'  said  he,  '  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? ' 

She  stared  at  him,  in  the  utter  difficulty  of  answering. 
'  Basil ' — she  began,  and  stopped,  not  rinding  another 
word  to  add.  For  prevarication  was  an  accomplishment 
Diana  knew  nothing  of.  She  closed  her  eyes,  that  they 
might  not  see  the  figure  standing  there. 

'  Would  you  like  me  to  fetch  your  mother  to  you  ? ' 

'  No,'  she  said  starting.  '  O  no  !  Don't  bring  her, 
Basil ! ' 

'I  will  not,'  said  he  kindly.  'Why  should  she  not 
come  ? ' 

'  Mother  ?  never.  Never,  never !  Not  mother.  I  can't 
bear  her — '  said  Diana  strangely. 

Mr.  Masters  went  down  stairs  looking  very  grave.  He 
took  his  supper,  for  he  needed  it ;  and  then  he  carried  up 
a  cup  of  tea,  fresh  made,  to  Diana.  She  drank  it  this 
time  eagerly;  but  there  was  no  lightening  of  his  grave 
brow  when  he  carried  the  cup  down  again.  Something 
was  very  much  the  matter,  he  knew  now,  as  he  had  feared 
it  last  night.  He  debated  with  himself  whether  he  had 
better  try  to  find  out  just  what  it  was.  Miss  Collins,  by  a 
judicious  system  of  suggestion  and  inquiry,  might  be  led 
perhaps  to  reveal  something  without  knowing  that  she  re- 
vealed anything ;  but  the  minister  disliked  that  way  of 
getting  information  when  it  could  be  dispensed  with.  He 
had  enough  knowledge  to  act  upon  ;  for  the  rest  he  was 
patient  and  could  wait. 

That  night  he  knew  Diana  did  not  sleep.  He  himself 
passed  the  night  again  in  his  study,  though  not  in  the 


3l6  DIANA. 

struggles  of  the  night  before.  He  was  very  calm,  steadfast, 
diligent ;  that  is,  his  usual  self  entirely.  And,  watching 
her  without  her  knowing  he  watched,  he  knew  by  her 
breathing  and  her  changes  of  position  that  it  was  a  night 
of  no  rest  on  her  part.  Once  he  saw  she  was  sitting  up  in 
the  bed  ;  once  he  saw  that  she  had  left  it  and  was  sitting 
by  the  window. 

The  next  day  the  minister  did  not  leave  home.  He  had 
no  more  urgent  business  anywhere,  he  thought,  than  there. 
And  he  found  Diana  did  not  make  up  by  day  what  she 
had  lost  by  night ;  she  was  always  staring  wide  awake 
whenever  he  went  into  the  room  ;  and  he  went  whenever 
there  was  a  cup  of  tea  or  a  cup  of  broth  to  be  taken  to 
her,  for  he  prepared  it  and  carried  it  to  her  himself. 

It  happened  in  the  course  ot  the  afternoon  that  Prince 
and  the  old  little  green  wagon  came  jogging  along  and 
landed  Mrs.  Starling  at  the  minister's  door.  This  was  a 
very  rare  event ;  Mrs.  Starling  came  at  long  intervals  to  see 
her  daughter,  and  made  then  a  call  which  nobody  enjoyed. 
To-day  Miss  Collins  hailed  the  sight  of  her.  Indeed  if  the 
distance  had  not  been  too  much,  Miss  Collins  would  have 
walked  down  to  carry  the  tidings  of  Diana's  indisposition  ; 
for  like  a  true  gossip  she  scented  mischief  where  she  could 
see  none.  The  minister  would  let  her  have  nothing  to  do 
with  his  wife ;  and,  if  he  were  out  of  the  house  and  she 
got  a  chance,  she  could  make  nothing  of  Diana.  Noth- 
ing certain  ;  but  nothing  either  that  lulled  her  suspicions. 
Now,  with  Mrs.  Starling,  there  was  no  telling  what  she 
might  get  at.  The  lady  dismounted  and  came  into  the 
kitchen,  looking  about  her,  as  always,  with  sharp  eyes. 

'  How  d'ye  do,'  said  she.     '  Where  is  Diana  ? ' 

'  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  Mis'  Starling,  and  that's  a  fact,' 
said  the  handmaid.  '  I  was  'most  a  mind  to  walk  down  to 
your  place  to-day.' 


THINGS   UNDONE.  3 1/ 

'  What's  the  matter  ?  Where's  Diana  ? ' 

1  Wall,  she's  up  stairs.  She  hain't  been  down  now  for 
two  days.' 

'  What's  the  reason  ? ' 

'  Wall — sun 'thin'  ain't  right ;  and  I  don't  think  the  min- 
ister's clear  what  it  is;  and  /ain't.  She  was  took  as  sud- 
den— you  never  see  nothin'  suddener — she  come  in  here  to 
fix  a  dish  o'  eggs  for  supper  that  she's  mighty  particler 
about,  and  don't  think  no  one  can  cook  eggs  but  herself ; 
and  I  was  talkin'  and  tellin'  her  about  my  old  experiences 
in  the  post  office — and  she  went  up  stairs  and  took  to  her 
bed ;  and  she  hain't  left  it  sen.  Now  ain't  that  queer  ? 
'Cause  she  didn't  say  nothin'  ailed  her ;  not  a  word  ;  only 
she  went  up  and  took  to  her  bed ;  and  she  doos  look  queer 
at  you,  that  I  will  say.  Mebbe  it's  fever  a  comin'  on.' 

There  was  a  minute  or  two's  silence.  Mrs.  Starling  did 
not  immediately  find  her  tongue. 

'  What  have  the  post  office  and  your  stories  got  to  do 
with  it  ? '  she  asked  harshly.  '  I  should  like  to  know.' 

'  Yes — '  said  Miss  Collins,  drawing  out  the  word  with 
affable  intonation, — '  that's  what  beats  me.  What  should 
they  ?  But  la  !  the  post  office  is  queer  ;  that's  what  I  always 
said.  Everybody  gits  into  it ;  and  ef  you're  there,  o'  course 
you  can't  help  knowin'  things.' 

'  You  weren't  in  the  post  office ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling. 
'It  was  none  oiyour  business.' 

'  Warn't  I  ? '  said  Miss  Collins.  '  Don't  you  mind  bet- 
ter'n  that,  Mis'  Starling  ?  I  mind  you  comin',  and  I  mind 
givin'  you  your  letters  too  ;  I  mind  some  'ticlar  big  ones, 
that  had  stamps  enough  on  to  set  up  a  shop.  La,  'tain't  no 
harm.  Miss  Gunn,  she  used  to  feel  a  sort  o'  sameness 
about  allays  takin'  in  and  givin'  out,  and  then  she'd  come 
into  the  kitchen  and  make  cake  mebbe,  and  send  me  to 


318  DIANA. 

tend  the  letters  and  the  folks.  And  then  it  was  as  good  as 
a  play  to  me.  Don't  you  never  git  tired  o'  trottin'  a  mile 
in  a  bushel,  Mis'  Starlin'  ?  So  I  was  jest  a  tellin'  Diany — ' 

'  Where's  the  minister  ? ' 

'  Most  likely  he's  where  she  is — up  stairs.  He  won't 
let  nobody  else  do  a  hand's  turn  for  her.  He  takes  up 
every  cup  of  tea,  and  he  spreads  every  bit  of  bread  and  but- 
ter ;  and  he  tastes  the  broths  ;  you'd  think  he  was  anythin' 
in  the  world  but  a  minister ;  he  tastes  the  broth,  and  he 
calls  for  the  salt  and  pepper,  and  he  stirs  and  he  tastes  ; 
and  then — you  never  see  a  man  make  such  a  fuss,  leastways 
I  never  did — he'll  have  a  white  napkin  and  spread  over  a 
tray,  and  the  cup  on  it,  and  saucer  too,  for  he  won't  have 
the  cup  'thout  the  saucer,  and  then  carry  it  off. — Was  your 
husband  like  that,  Mis'  Starling  ?  he  was  a  minister,  I've 
heerd  tell.' 

Mrs.  Starling  turned  short  about  without  answering  and 
went  up  stairs. 

She  found  the  minister  there,  as  Miss  Collins  had 
opined  she  would  ;  but  she  paid  little  attention  to  him.  He 
was  just  drawing  the  curtains  over  a  window  where  the  sun- 
light came  in  too  glaringly.  As  he  had  done  this,  and 
turned,  he  was  a  spectator  of  the  meeting  between  mother 
and  child.  It  was  peculiar.  Mrs.  Starling  advanced  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  carr.e  no  nearer,  but  stood  there  look- 
ing down  at  her  daughter.  And  Diana's  eyes  fastened  on 
hers  with  a  look  of  calm,  cold  intelligence.  It  was  intense 
enough,  yet  there  was  no  passion  in  it ;  I  suppose  there 
was  too  much  despair  ;  however,  it  was  as  I  said,  keen  and 
intent,  and  it  held  Mrs.  Starling's  eyes,  like  a  vice.  Those 
Mr.  Masters  could  not  see  ;  the  lady's  back  was  towards 
him  ;  but  he  saw  how  Diana's  eyes  pinioned  her  and  how 
strangely  still  Mrs.  Starling  stood. 


THINGS    UNDONE.  319 

'  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? '  she  said  harshly  at  last. 

'  You  ought  to  know,' — said  Diana,  not  moving  her  eyes. 

'  I  ain't  a  conjuror,'  Mrs.  Starling  returned  with  a  sort 
of  snort.  '  What  makes  you  look  at  me  like  that  ? ' 

Diana  gave  a  short  sharp  laugh.  '  How  can  you  look 
at  me  ? '  she  said.  '  I  know  all  about  it,  mother. 

Mrs.  Starling  with  a  sudden  determination  went  round 
to  the  head  of  the  bed  and  put  out  her  hand  to  feel  Di- 
ana's pulse.  Dian-a  shrank  away  from  her. 

'  Keep  off !  '  she  cried.  '  Basil,  Basil,  don't  let  her 
touch  me.' 

'  She  is  out  of  her  head,'  said  Mrs.  Starling,  turning  to 
her  son-in-Law,  and  speaking  half  loud.  '  I  had  better  stay 
and  sit  up  with  her.' 

'  No,'  cried  Diana.  '  I  don't  want  you.  Basil,  don't 
let  her  stay.  Basil,  Basil  ! ' — 

The  cry  was  urgent  and  pitiful.  Her  husband  came 
near,  arranged  the  pillows,  for  she  had  started  half  up  ;  and 
putting  her  gently  back  upon  them,  said  in  his  calm  tones, 
— '  Be  quiet,  Di ;  you  command  here.  Mrs.  Starling,  shall 
we  go  down  stairs  ? ' 

Mrs.  Starling  this  time  complied  without  making  any 
objection  ;  but  as  she  reached  the  bottom  she  gave  vent  to 
her  opinion. 

'  You  are  spoiling  her  ! ' 

'  Really — I  should  like  to  have  the  chance.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? ' 

'  Just  the  words.  I  should  like  to  spoil  Di.  She  has 
never  had  much  of  that  sort  of  bad  influence.' 

'  That  sounds  very  weak,  to  me,'  said  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  To  whom  should  a  man  show  himself  weak,  if  not 
toward  his  wife  ? '  said  Basil  carelessly. 

'  Your  wife  will  not  thank  you  for  it.' 


32O  DIANA. 

'  I  will  endeavour  to  retain  her  respect,' — said  Basil  in 
the  same  way;  which  aggravated  Mrs.  Starling,  beyond 
bounds.  Something  about  him  always  did  try  her  temper, 
she  said  to  herself. 

'  Diana  is  going  to  have  a  fever,'  she  spoke  abruptly. 

'  I  am  afraid  of  it.' 

•  What's  brought  it  on  ? ' 

'  I  came  home  two  evenings  ago  and  found  her  on  the 
bed.' 

'  You  don't  want  me,  you  say.  Who  do  you  expect  is 
going  to  sit  up  with  her  and  take  care  of  her  ? ' 

'  I  will  try  what  I  can  do,  for  the  present.' 

'  You  can't  manage  that  and  your  out-door  work  too.' 

'  I  will  manage  that — '  said  Basil  significantly. 

'  And  let  your  parish  work  go  ?  Well,  I  always  thought 
a  minister  was  bound  to  attend  to  his  people.' 

'  Yes.  Isn't  my  wife  more  one  of  my  people  than  any- 
body else  ?  Will  you  stay  and  take  a  cup  of  tea,  Mrs. 
Starling?' 

'  No  ;  if  you  don't  want  me,  I  am  going.  What  will  you 
do  if  Diana  gets  delirious  ?  I  think  she's  out  of  her  head 
now.' 

'  I'll  attend  to  her,'  said  Basil  composedly. 

Half  suspecting  a  double  meaning  in  his  words,  Mrs.  Star- 
ling took  short  leave,  and  drove  off.  Not  quite  easy  in  her 
mind,  if  the  truth  be  told,  and  glad  to  be  out  of  all  patience 
with  the  minister.  Yes,  if  she  had  known  how  things  would 
turn — if  she  had  known, — perhaps,  she  would  not  have 
thrown  that  first  letter  into  the  fire  ;  which  had  drawn  her  on 
to  throw  the  second  in,  and  the  third.  Could  any  son-in-law, 
could  Evan  Knowlton  at  least,  have  been  more  untoward  for 
her  wishes  than  the  one  she  had  got  ?  More  unmanageable 
he  could  not  have  been ;  nor  more  likely  to  be  spooney 


THINGS    UNDONE.  321 

about  Diana.  And  now  what  if  Diana  really  should  have 
a  fever?  People  talk  out  in  delirium.  Well — the  min- 
ister would  keep  his  own  counsel ;  she  did  not  care,  she 
said.  But  all  the  same,  she  did  care  ;  and  she  would  fain 
have  been  the  only  one  to  receive  Diana's  revelations,  if 
she  could  have  managed  it.  And  by  what  devil's  conjura- 
tion had  the  truth  come  to  be  revealed,  when  only  the  fire 
and  she  knew  anything  about  it.  Mrs.  Starling  chewed  the 
cud  of  no  sweet  fancy  on  her  road  home. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


DIANA  did  become  ill.  A  few  days  of  such  brain  work 
as  she  had  endured  that  first  twenty-four  hours,  were  too 
much  even  for  her  perfect  organization.  She  fell  into  a  low 
fever  which  at  times  threatened  to  become  violent,  yet  nev- 
er did.  She  was  delirious,  often  ;  and  Basil  heard  quite 
enough  of  her  unconscious  revelations  to  put  him  in  full 
possession  of  the  situation.  In  different  portions,  Diana 
went  over  the  whole  ground.  He  knew  sometimes  that  she 
was  walking  with  Evan,  taking  leave  of  him  ;  perhaps  taking 
counsel  with  him,  and  forming  plans  for  life  ;  then  wonder- 
ing at  his  silence,  speculating  about  ways  and  distances, 
tracing  his  letters  out  of  the  post  office  into  the  wrong 
hand.  And  when  she  was  upon  that  strain,  Diana  would 
break  out  into  a  cry  of  "  O,  mother,  mother,  mother  !  " — 
repeating  the  word  with  an  accent  of  such  plaintive  despair 
that  it  tore  the  heart  of  the  one  who  heard  it. 

There  was  only  one.  As  long  as  this  state  of  things 
lasted,  Basil  gave  himself  up  to  the  single  task  of  watching 
and  nursing  his  wife.  And  amid  the  many  varieties  of 
heart-suffering  which  people  know  in  this  world,  that  which 
he  tasted  these  weeks  was  one  of  refined  bitterness.  He 
came  to  know  just  how  things  were  and  just  how  they  had 
been  all  along.  He  knew  what  Diana's  patient  or  reticent 
calm  covered.  He  heard  sometimes  her  fond  meanings 


BONDS.  323 

over  another  name  ;  sometimes  her  passionate  outcries  t« 
the  owner  of  that  name  to  come  and  deliver  her;  some- 
times, she  revealed  that  too,  even  the  repulsion  with  which 
she  regarded  himself.  '  Oh,  not  this  man  ! '  she  said  one 
night,  when  he  had  been  sitting  by  her  and  hoping  that  she 
was  more  quiet.  '  Oh,  not  this  man  !  It  was  a  mistake.  It 
was  all  a  mistake.  People  ought  to  take  better  care  at 
the  post  office.  Tell  Evan  I  didn't  know ;  but  I'll  come  to 
him  now  just  as  soon  as  I  can.' 

Another  time  she  burst  out  more  violently.  '  Don't  kiss 
me  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  Don't  touch  me.  I  wont  bear  it.  Never 
again.  I  belong  to  somebody  else,  don't  you  know  ?  You 
have  no  business  to  be  here.'  Basil  was  not  near  her,  in- 
deed she  would  not  have  recognized  him  if  he  had  been ; 
he  was  sitting  by  the  fire  at  a  distance  ;  but  he  knew 
whom  she  was  addressing  in  her  mournful  ravings ;  and 
his  heart  and  courage  almost  gave  way.  It  was  very 
bitter  ;  and  many  an  hour  of  those  nights  the  minister 
spent  on  his  knees  at  the  bed's  foot,  seeking  for  strength 
and  wisdom,  seeking  to  keep  his  heart  from  being 
quite  broken,  striving  to  know  what  to  do.  Should  he  do 
as  she  said,  and  never  kiss  her  again  ?  Should  he  behave 
to  her  in  the  future  as  a  mere  stranger  ?  What  was  best 
for  him  and  for  her  ?  Basil  would  have  done  that  unflinch- 
ingly, though  it  had  led  him  to  the  stake,  if  he  could  know 
what  the  best  was.  But  he  did  not  quite  give  up  all  hope, 
desperate  as  the  case  looked ;  his  own  strong  cheerful  na- 
ture and  his  faith  in  God  kept  him  up.  And  he  resolutely 
concluded  that  it  would  not  be  the  best  way  nor  the  hope- 
fulest,  for  him  and  Diana,  bound  to  each  other  as  they 
were,  to  try  to  live  as  strangers.  The  bond  could  not  be 
broken  ;  it  had  better  be  acknowledged  by  them  both.  But 
if  Basil  could  have  broken  it  and  set  her  free,  he  would 


324  DIANA. 

have  done  it  at  any  cost  to  himself.  So,  week  after  week, 
he  kept  his  post  as  nurse  at  Diana's  side.  He  was  a  capi- 
tal nurse.  Untireable  as  a  man,  and  tender  as  a  woman  ; 
quick  as  a  woman  too  to  read  signs  and  answer  unspoken 
wishes ;  thoughtful  as  many  women  are  not ;  patient  with 
an  unending  patience.  Diana  was  herself  at  times  and  re- 
cognized all  this.  And  by  degrees,  as  the  slow  days  wore 
away,  her  disorder  wore  away  too  or  wore  itself  out,  and  she 
came  back  to  her  normal  condition  in  all  except  strength. 
That  was  very  failing,  even  after  the  fever  was  gone.  And 
still  Basil  kept  his  post.  He  began  now,  it  is  true,  to  attend 
to  some  pressing  outside  duties,  for  which  in  the  weeks  just 
past  he  had  provided  a  substitute  ;  but  morning,  noon  and 
night  he  was  at  Diana's  side.  No  hand  but  his  own  might 
ever  carry  to  her  the  meals  which  his  own  hand  had  no  in- 
considerable share  in  preparing.  He  knew  how  to  serve  an 
invalid's  breakfast  with  a  refinement  of  care  which  Diana  her- 
self, before  that  would  not  have  known  how  to  give  another  ; 
though  she  appreciated  it  and  took  her  lesson.  Then  no- 
body could  so  nicely  and  deftly  prop  up  pillows  and  cush- 
ions so  as  to  make  her  rest  comfortably  for  the  taking  of 
the  meal ;  no  one  had  such  skilful  strength  to  enable  a 
weak  person  to  change  his  position.  For  all  other  things, 
Diana  saw  no  difference  in  him  ;  nothing  told  her  that  she 
had  betrayed  herself,  and  she  betrayed  herself  no  more. 
Dull  and  listless  she  might  be  ;  that  was  natural  enough  in 
her  weak  state  of  convalescence  ;  and  Diana  had  never  been 
demonstrative  towards  her  husband  ;  it  was  no  new  thing 
that  she  was  not  demonstrative  now.  Neither  did  he  be- 
tray that  he  knew  all  she  was  trying,  poor  child,  to  hide 
from  him.  He  was  just  as  usual.  Only,  in  Diana's  pres- 
ent helpless  condition  he  had  opportunity  to  shew  tender- 
ness and  care  in  a  thousand  services  which  in  her  well 


BONDS.  325 

days  she  would  have  dispensed  with.  And  he  did  it,  as  I 
said,  with  the  strength  of  a  man  and  the  delicacy  of  a  wo- 
man. He  let  nobody  else  do  anything  for  her. 

Did  he  guess  how  gladly  she  would  have  escaped  from 
all  his  ministrations  ?  did  he  knew  what  they  were  to  Diana  ? 
Probably  not ;  for  with  all  his  fineness  of  perception  he 
was  yet  a  man  ;  and  I  suppose,  reverse  the  conditions,  there 
never  was  a  man  yet  who  would  object  to  have  one  woman 
wait  upon  him,  because  he  loved  another.  Yet  Basil  did 
know  partly  and  partly  guess ;  and  he  went  patiently  on  in 
the  way  he  had  marked  out  for  himself,  upheld  by  principle 
and  by  a  great  tenacity  of  purpose  which  was  part  of  his 
character.  Nevertheless  those  were  days  of  pain,  great 
•  and  terrible  even  for  him ;  what  they  were  to  Diana  he 
could  but  partially  divine.  As  health  slowly  came  back, 
and  she  looked  at  herself  and  her  life  again  with  eyes  un- 
veiled by  disease,  with  the  pitiless  clearness  of  sound  rea- 
son, Diana  wished  she  could  die.  She  knew  she  could  not ; 
she  could  come  no  nearer  to  it  than  a  passing  thought ;  her 
pulses  were  retaking  their  sweet  regularity  ;  her  nerves 
were  strung  again,  fine  and  true  ;  only  muscular  strength 
seemed  to  tarry.  Lying  there  on  her  bed  and  looking  out 
over  the  snow-covered  fields,  for  it  was  mid-winter  by  this 
time,  Diana  sometimes  felt  a  terrible  impulse  to  fly  to  Evan  ; 
as  if  she  could  wait  only  till  she  had  the  power  to  move 
The  feeling  was  wild,  impetuous  ;  it  came  like  a  hurricane 
wind,  sweeping  everything  before  it.  And  then  Diana  would 
feel  her  chains,  and  writhe,  knowing  that  she  could  not  and 
would  not  break  them.  But  how  ever  was  life  to  be  en- 
dured ?  life  with  this  other  man  ?  And  how  dreadful  it  was 
that  he  was  so  good,  and  so  good  to  her.  Yes,  it  would  be 
easier  if  he  did  not  care  for  her  so  well,  far  easier ;  easier 
even  if  he  were  not  himself  so  good.  The  power  of  his 


326  DIANA. 

goodness  fettered  Diana ;  it  was  a  spell  upon  her.  Yes, 
and  she  wanted  to  be  good  too  ;  she  would  not  forfeit 
heaven  because  she  had  lost  earth,  no,  and  not  to  gain 
earth  back  again.  But  how  was  she  to  live  ?  And  what 
if  she  should  be  unable  always  to  hide  her  feeling,  and  Basil 
should  come  to  know  it  ;  how  would  he  live  ?  What  if  she 
had  said  strange  things  in  her  days  and  nights  of  illness  ? 
They  were  all  like  a  confused  misty  landscape  to  her  •  noth- 
ing taking  shape  ;  she  could  not  tell  how  it  might  have 
been.  Restless  and  weary  she  was  going  over  all  these  and 
a  thousand  other  things  one  day,  as  she  did  every  day,  when 
Basil  came  in.  He  brought  a  tray  in  his  hand.  He  set  it 
down,  and  came  to  the  bedside. 

'  Is  it  supper-time  already  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Are  you  hungry  ? ' 

'  I  ought  not  to  be  hungry.     I  don't  think  I  am. 

'  Why  ought  you  not  to  be  hungry  ? ' 

'I  am  doing  nothing,  lying  here.' 

'  I  find  that  is  what  the  people  say  who  are  doing  too 
much.  Extremes  meet, — as  usual.' 

He  lifted  Diana  up  and  piled  pillows  and  cushions 
at  her  back  till  she  was  well  supported.  Nobody  could  do 
this  so  well  as  Basil.  Then  he  brought  the  tray  and  ar- 
ranged it  before  her.  There  was  a  bit  of  cold  partridge, 
and  toast ;  and  Basil  filled  Diana's  cup  from  a  little  teapot 
he  had  set  by  the  fire.  The  last  degree  of  nicety  was 
observable  in  all  these  preparations.  Diana  eat  her  sup- 
per. She  must  live,  and  she  must  eat,  and  she  could  not 
help  being  hungry ;  though  she  wondered  at  herself  that 
she  could  be  so  unnatural. 

'  Where  could  you  get  this  bird  '  she  asked  at  length,  to 
break  the  silence  which  grew  painful. 

'  I  caught  it.' 


BONDS.  327 

'  Caught  it  ?     You  I    Shot  it,  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  No.  I  had  not  time  to  go  after  it  with  a  gun.  But  1 
set  snares.' 

'  I  never  knew  partridges  were  so  good/  said  Diana, 
though  something  in  her  tone  said,  unconsciously  to  her, 
that  she  cared  not  what  was  good  or  bad. 

'  You  did  not  use  your  advantages.  That  often  hap- 
pens.' 

'  I  had  not  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  get  par- 
tridges,' said  Diana  languidly. 

'  The  woods  are  full  of  them.' 

'  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  pity  to  catch  them  ? ' 

'  For  you  ? '  said  Basil.  He  was  removing  her  empty 
plate,  and  putting  before  her  another  with  an  orange  upon 
it,  so  accurately  prepared  that  it  stirred  her  admiration. 

'  Oranges  ! '  cried  Diana.  '  How  did  you  learn  to  do 
everything,  Basil  ? ' 

'  Don't  be  too  curious,'  said  he.  As  he  spoke,  he  softly 
put  back  of  her  ear  a  stray  lock  of  the  beautiful  brown 
hair,  which  fell  behind  her  like  a  cloud  of  wavy  brightness. 
Even  from  that  touch  she  inwardly  shrank ;  outwardly  she 
was  impassive  enough. 

'Basil, 'said  Diana  suddenly,  '  didn't  I  talk  foolishly 
sometimes  ? — when  I  was  sick  I  mean.' 

'  Don't  you  ever  do  it  when  you  are  well  ? ' 

<DoI?' 

'  What  do  you  think  ? '  said  he  laughing,  albeit  his 
heart  was  not  merry  at  the  moment,  but  Diana's  question 
was  naive. 

'  i  did  not  think  I  was  in  the  habit  of  talking  foolishly.' 

'  Your  thoughts  are  true  and  just,  as  usual.  It  is  so 
far  from  being  in  your  habit,  that  it  is  hardly  in  your 
power,'  he  said  tenderly.  ' 


328  DIANA. 

Diana  eat  her  orange,  for  she  was  very  fond  of  the 
fruit,  and  it  gave  occupation  to  hands  and  eyes  while  Basil 
was  standing  by.  She  did  not  like  his  evasion  of  her 
question,  and  pondered  how  she  could  bring  it  up  again, 
between  wish  and  fear.  Before  she  was  ready  to  speak 
the  chance  was  gone.  As  Basil  took  away  her  plate  he 
remarked  that  he  had  to  go  down  to  see  old  Mrs.  Barstow ; 
and  arranging  her  pillows  anew,  he  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her. 

Left  alone,  Diana  sat  still  propped  up  in  bed  and 
stared  into  the  fire,  which  grew  brighter  as  the  light  with- 
out waned.  How  she  rebelled  against  that  kiss.  '  No,  he 
has  no  right  to  me  ! '  she  cried  in  her  passionate  thoughts ; 
'  he  has  no  right  to  me  !  I  am  Evan's  ;  every  bit  of  me  is 
Evan's,  and  nobody's  else.  O  how  eame  I  to  marry  this 
man !  and  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  wonder  if  I  shall  go  mad  ? 
• — for  I  am  riot  going  to  die.  But  how  is  it  possible  that  I 
can  live  so  ? ' 

She  was  slow  in  regaining  strength.  Yet  little  by  little 
it  came  back,  like  a  monarch  entering  a  country  that  has 
rebelled  against  him.  By  and  by  she  was  able  to  sit  up. 
Her  husband  had  a  luxurious  easy  chair  sent  from  Boston 
for  her  and  placed  in  her  room  ;  and  one  evening,  it  was 
in  February  now,  Diana  got  up  and  put  herself  in  it.  She 
had  never  known  such  a  luxurious  piece  of  furniture  in  her 
life ;  she  was  dressed  in  a  warm  wrapper  also  provided  by 
her  husband  and  which  seemed  to  her  of  extravagant 
daintiness ;  and  she  sank  into  the  depths  of  the  one  and 
the  folds  of  the  other  with  a  helpless  feeling  of  Basil's 
power  over  her,  symbolized  and  emphasized  by  these 
things.  Presently  came  Basil  himself,  again  bringing  her 
supper.  He  placed  a  small  table  by  her  side  and  set  the 
tray  there ;  put  the  teapot  down  by  the  fire  j  and  taking  a 


BONDS.  329 

view  of  his  wife,  gave  a  slight  smile  at  the  picture.  He 
might  well,  having  so  good  a  conscience  as  this  man  had. 
Diana  was  one  of  those  magnificent  women  who  look  well 
always  and  anywhere  ;  with  a  kitchen  apron  on  and  hands 
in  flour,  or  in  the  disabille  of  careless  undress  ;  but  as  her 
husband  saw  her  then  she  was  lovely  in  an  exquisite  degree. 
She  was  wrapped  in  a  quilted  dressing  gown  of  soft  grey 
stuff,  with  a  warm  shawl  about  her  shoulders  ;  her  beauti- 
ful abundant  hair,  which  she  had  been  too  weak  of  hand 
and  of  heart  too  to  dress  elaborately,  lay  piled  about  her 
head  in  loose  bright  wavy  masses,  much  more  picturesque 
than  Diana  would  have  known  how  to  make  them  by 
design.  I  think  there  is  apt  too  to  be  about  such  women  a 
natural  grace  of  motion  or  of  repose  ;  it  was  her  case.  To 
think  of  herself  or  the  appearance  she  might  at  any  time 
be  making,  was  foreign  to  Diana  ;  the  noble  grace  of  un- 
consciousness, united  to  her  perfectness  of  build,  made 
her  always  faultless  in  action  or  attitude.  If  she  moved  or 
if  she  sat,  it  might  have  been  a  duchess,  for  the  beautiful 
unconscious  ease  with  which  she  did  it.  Nature's  high 
breeding;  there  is  such  a  thing;  and  there  is  such  an 
effect  of  it,  when  the  constitution  of  mind  and  body  are 
alike  noble. 

Basil  poured  out  her  cup  of  tea,  and  divided  her  quail  j 
and  then  sat  down.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  bear. 

'  You  are  too  good  to  me,'  said  Diana  humbly. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  you  prove  that.' 

'  I  am  not  sure  but  you  are  too  good  to  everybody.' 

'  Why  ?  how  can  one  be  too  good  ? ' 

1  You  won't  get  paid  for  it.' 

'  I  think  I  shall,'  said  Basil ;  in  a  quiet  confident  way 
he  had,  which  was  provoking  if  you  were  arguing  with  him. 
But  Diana  was  not  arguing  with  him. 


330  DIANA. 

'  Basil,  /can  never  pay  you,'  she  said  with  a  voice  that 
faltered  a  little. 

'  You  are  sure  of  that  in  your  own  mind  ? ' 

'  Very  sure  ! ' 

*  I  am  a  man  of  a  hopeful  turn  of  nature.  Shall  I 
divide  that  joint  for  you  ? ' 

'  My  hands  cannot  manage  a  quail ! '  said  Diana  yielding 
her  knife  and  fork  to  him.  'What  can  make  me  so  weak?' 

'  You  have  had  fever.' 

'  But  I  have  no  fever  now,  and  I  do  not  seem  to  get 
my  strength  back.' 

'  After  the  unnatural  tension,  Nature  takes  her  re- 
venge.' 

'  It  is  very  hard  on  you  ! ' 

'  What  ?  ' 

Diana  did  not  answer.  She  had  spoken  that  last  word 
with  almost  a  break  in  her  voice ;  she  gave  her  attention 
now  diligently  to  picking  the  quail  bones.  But  when  her 
supper  was  done,  and  the  tray  delivered  over  to  Miss  Col- 
lins, Basil  did  not  as  sometimes  he  did,  go  away  and  leave 
her ;  but  sat  down  again  and  trimmed  the  fire.  Diana  lay 
back  in  her  chai^looking  at  him. 

'  Basil,'  she  said  at  last  after  a  long  silence, — '  do  you 
think  mistakes,  I  mean,  life-mistakes,  can  ever  be  mended 
in  this  world  ? ' 

'  You  must  define  what  you  mean  by  mistakes,'  he  said 
without  looking  at  her.  '  There  are  no  mistakes,  love,  but 
those  which  we  make  by  our  own  fault.' 

'  O  but  yes  there  are,  Basil ! ' 

'  Not  what  /mean  by  mistakes.' 

'  Then  what  do  you  call  them  ?  When  people's  lives 
are  all  spoiled  bv  something  they  have-  had  nothing  to  do 
with — by  death,  or  sickness,  or  accident,  or  misfortune.' 


BONDS.  331 

'  I  call  it,'  said  Basil  slowly  and  still  without  looking  at 
her, — '  I  call  it,  when  it  touches  me  or  you,  or  other  of  the 
Lord's  children, — God's  good  hand.' 

'  O  no,  Basil !  people's  wickedness  cannot  be  his  hand.' 

'  People's  wickedness  is  their  own.  And  other  evil  I 
believe  is  wrought  by  the  prince  of  this  world.  But  God 
will  use  people's  wickedness  and  even  Satan's  mischief,  to 
his  children's  best  good  ;  and  so  it  becomes,  in  so  far,  his 
blessed  hand.  Don't  you  know  he  has  promised,  "  There 
shall  no  evil  happen  to  the  just  ?  "  And  that  "  all  things 
shall  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love  God  ? " 
His  promise  does  not  fail,  my  child.' 

'  But  Basil, — loads  of  things  do  happen  to  them  which 
cannot  work  for  their  good.' 

'  Then  what  becomes  of  the  Lord's  promise  ? ' 

'  He  cannot  have  made  it,  I  think.' 

'  He  has  made  it,  and  you  and  I  believe  it.' 

'  But  Basil,  it  is  impossible.  I  do  not  see  how  some 
things  can  ever  turn  to  people's  good.' 

'  If  any  of  the  Lord's  children  were  in  doubt  upon  that 
point,  I  should  recommend  him  to  ask  the  Lord  to  enlighten 
him.  For  the  heavens  may  fall,  Diana,  but  "the  word  of 
our  God  shall  stand  forever."  ' 

Diana  felt  her  lips  quivering  and  drew  back  into  the 
shadow  to  hide  them. 

'  But  there  can  be  no  kindness  in  some  of  these  things 
that  I  am  thinking  about,' — she  said  as  soon  as  she  could 
control  her  voice  ;  and  it  sounded  harsh  even  then. 

'There  is  nothing  but  kindness.  When  I  would  not 
give  you  strong  coffee  a  while  ago,  in  your  fever,  do  you 
think  I  was  influenced  by  cruel  motives  ? ' 

'  I  could  never  believe  anything  but  good  of  you, 
Basil.' 


332  DIANA. 

'  Thank  you.  Do  you  mean,  that  of  Christ  you 
could  V 

No — '  said  Diana  hesitating ;  '  but  I  thought,  perhaps, 
he  might  not  care.' 

'  He  had  need  to  be  long-suffering  ! '  said  Basil  ;  '  for 
we  do  try  his  patience,  the  best  of  us.  "  He  has  borne  our 
griefs  and  carried  our  sorrows,"  Diana ;  down  into  humili- 
ation and  death ;  that  he  might  so  earn  the  right  to  lift 
them  off  our  shoulders  and  hearts  ;  and  one  of  his  children 
doubts  if  he  cares  ! ' 

'But  he  does  not  lift  them  off,  Basil,'  said  Diana;  and 
her  voice  trembled  with  the  unshed  tears. 

'  He  will ' — said  her  husband. 

'  When  ? ' 

'  As  soon  as  we  let  him.' 

'What  must  I  do,  to  let  him? ' 

*  Trust  him  wholly.     And  follow  him  like  a  child.' 

The  tears  came,  Diana  could  not  hinder  them  ;  she  laid 
her  face  against  the  side  of  her  chair  where  Basil  could  not 
see  it, 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

EVAN'S  SISTER. 

SLOWLY  from  this  time  Diana  regained  strength  and  by 
degrees  took  again  her  former  place  in  the  household.  To 
Miss  Collins'  vision  she  was  "  the  same  as  ever."  Basil 
felt  she  was  not. 

Yet  Diana  did  every  duty  of  her  station  with  all  the 
care  and  diligence  she  had  ever  given  to  it.  She  neglected 
nothing.  Basil's  wardrobe  was  kept  in  perfect  order ;  his 
linen  was  exquisitely  got  up  ;  his  meals  were  looked  after 
and  served  with  all  the  nice  attention  that  was  possible. 
Diana  did  not  in  the  least  lose  her  head,  or  sit  brooding 
when  there  was  something  to  do.  She  did  not  sit  brooding 
at  any  time,  unless  at  rare  intervals.  Yet  her  husband's 
heart  was  very  heavy  with  the  weight  which  rested  on  hers, 
and  truly  with  his  own  share  as  well.  There  was  a  line  in 
the  corners  of  Diana's  sweet  mouth  which  told  him,  nobody 
else,  that  she  was  turning  to  stone  ;  and  the  light  of  her 
eye  was  as  it  were  turned  inward  upon  itself.  Without 
stopping  to  brood  over  things,  which  she  did  not,  her  mind 
was  constantly  abiding  in  a  different  sphere  away  from 
him,  dwelling  afar  off,  or  apart  in  a  region  by  itself ;  he 
had  her  physical  presence  but  not  her  spiritual ;  and  who 
cares  for  a  body  without  a  soul  ?  All  this  time  there  was 
no  confidence  between  them.  Basil  knew  indeed  the 
whole  facts  of  the  case,  but  Diana  did  not  know  he  knew. 

333 


334  DIANA. 

He  wished  she  would  speak,  but  believed  now  she  never 
would  ;  and  he  could  not  ask  her.  Truly  he  had  his  own 
part  to  bear  ;  and  withal  his  sorrow  and  yearning  tender- 
ness for  her.  Sometimes  his  heart  was  nigh  to  break.  But 
Diana's  heart  was  broken. 

Was  it  comfort,  or  was  it  not  comfort,  when  near  the 
end  of  spring  a  little  daughter  was  born  to  them  ?  Diana 
in  any  circumstances  was  too  true  a  woman  not  to  enter 
upon  a  mother's  riches  and  responsibilities  with  a  full 
heart,  not  to  enter  thoroughly  into  a  mother's  joy  and 
dignity  ;  it  was  a  beautiful  something  that  had  come  into 
her  life,  so  far  as  itself  was  concerned  ;  and  no  young 
mother's  hands  ever  touched  more  tenderly  the  little  pink 
bundle  committed  to  them,  nor  ever  any  mother's  eyes 
hung  more  intently  over  her  wonderful  new  possession. 
But  lift  the  burden  from  Diana's  heart  her  baby  did  not. 
There  was  something  awful  about  it  too,  for  it  was  another 
bond  that  bound  her  to  a  man  she  did  not  love.  When 
Diana  was  strong  enough,  she  sometimes  shed  floods  of 
tears  over  the  little  unconscious  face,  the  only  human  con- 
fident she  dared  trust  with  her  secret.  Before  this  time 
her  tears  had  been  few  ;  something  in  the  baby  took  the 
hardness  from  her,  or  else  gave  one  of  those  inexplicable 
touches  to  the  spring  of  tears  which  we  can  neither  resist 
nor  account  for.  But  the  baby's  father  was  as  fond  of  her 
as  her  mother,  and  had  a  right  to  be,  Diana  knew  ;  and  that 
tried  her.  She  grudged  Basil  the  right.  On  the  whole,  I 
think  however  the  baby  did  Diana  good  As  for  Basil,  it 
did  him  good.  He  thanked  God  and  took  courage. 

The  summer  had  begun  when  Diana  was  able  to  come 
down  stairs  again.  One  afternoon  she  was  there,  in  her 
little  parlour,  come  down  for  a  change.  The  windows  were 
open,  and  she  sat  thinking  of  many  things.  Her  easy 


EVAN  S    SISTER.  335 

chair  had  been  moved  down  to  this  room  ;  and  Diana,  in 
white,  as  Basil  liked  to  see  her,  was  lying  back  in  it,  close 
beside  the  window.  June  was  on  the  hills  and  in  the  air, 
and  in  the  garden ;  for  a  bunch  of  red  roses  stood  in  a 
glass  on  the  table,  and  one  was  fastened  at  Diana's  belt 
and  another  stuck  in  her  beautiful  hair.  Not  by  her  own 
hands,  truly  ;  Basil  had  brought  in  the  roses  a  little  while 
ago  and  held  them  to  her  nose,  and  then  put  one  in  her 
hair  and  one  in  her  belt.  Diana  suffered  it,  all  careless 
and  unknowing  of  the  exquisite  effect,  which  her  husband 
smiled  at  and  then  went  off ;  for  his  work  called  him. 
She  had  heard  his  horse's  hoof  beats,  going  away  at  a 
gallop ;  and  the  sound  carried  her  thoughts  back,  away,  as 
a  little  thing  will,  to  a  time  when  Mr.  Masters  used  to 
come  to  her  old  home  to  visit  her  mother  and  her,  and 
then  ride  off  so.  Yes,  and  in  those  clays  another  came 
too  ;  and  June  days  were  sweet  then  as  now  ;  and  roses 
bloomed  ;  and  the  robins  were  whistling  then  also,  she  re- 
membered ;  did  their  fates  and  life  courses  never  change  ? 
was  it  all  June  to  them,  every  year?  How  the  robins 
whistled  their  answer — "  all  June  to  them,  every  year  !  " 
And  the  smell  of  roses  did  not  change,  nor  the  colour  of 
the  light ;  and  the  fresh  green  of  the  young  foliage  was 
deep  and  bright  and  glittering  to-day  as  ever  it  was.  Just 
the  same  !  and  a  human  life  could  have  all  sweet  scents 
and  bright  tints  and  glad  sounds  fall  out  of  it,  and  not  to 
come  back!  There  is  nothing  but  duty  left,  thought 
Diana ;  and  duty  with  all  the  sap  gone  out  of  it.  Duty 
was  left  a  dry  tree ;  and  more,  a  tree  so  full  of  thorns  that 
she  could  not  touch  it  without  being  stung  and  pierced. 
Yet  even  so ;  to  this  stake  of  duty  she  was  bound. 

Diana  sat  cheerlessly  gazing  out  into  the  June  sunlight, 
which  laughed  at  her  with  no  power  to  gain  a  smile  in  re- 


336  DIANA. 

turn  ;  when  a  step  came  along  the  narrow  entry,  and  the 
doorway  was  filled  with  Mrs.  Starling's  presence.  Mother 
and  daughter  looked  at  each  other  in  a  peculiar  way  they 
had  now  ;  Diana's  face  cold,  Mrs.  Starling's  face  hard. 

'  Well ! '  said  the  latter, — '  how  are  you  getting  along  ? ' 

'  You  see,  I  am  down  stairs.' 

'  I  see  you're  doing  nothing.' 

'  Mr.  Masters  wont  let  me.' 

'  Humph !  When  /  had  a  baby  four  weeks  old,  I  had 
my  own  way.  And  so  would  you,  if  you  wanted  to  have 
it.' 

'  My  husband  will  not  let  me  have  it.' 

'  That's  fool's  nonsense,  Diana.  If  you  are  the  girl  I  take 
you  for,  you  can  do  whatever  you  like  with  your  husband. 
No  man  that  ever  lived  would  make  me  sit  with  my  hands 
before  me.  Who's  got  the  baby  ? ' 

'  Jemima.' 

'  How's  Jemima  to  do  her  work  and  your  work  too  ? 
She  can't  do  it.' 

'  No,  but  Mr.  Masters  is  going  to  get  another  person  to 
help  take  care  of  baby.' 

'  A  nurse ! '  cried  Mrs.  Starling  aghast. 

'  No,  not  exactly  ;  but  somebody  to  help  me.' 

'  Are  you  turned  weak  and  sickly,  Diana  ?  ' 

'  No,  mother.' 

'  Then  you  don't  want  another  girl,  any  more  than  a  frog 
wants  an  umbrella.  Put  your  baby  in  the  crib  and  teach 
her  to  lie  there,  when  you  are  busy.  That's  the  way  you 
were  brought  up.' 

'  You  must  talk  to  Mr.  Masters,  mother.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Masters — I've  got  something 
else  to  do.  But  you  can  talk  to  him,  Diana,  and  he'll  do 
what  you  say.' 


EVAN'S  SISTER.  337 

'  It's  the  other  way,  mother.  I  must  do  what  he  says.' 
Diana's  tone  was  peculiar. 

'  Then  you're  turned  soft.' 

'  I  think  I  am  turned  hard.' 

'  Your  husband  is  easy  to  manage — for  you.' 

'Is  he ? '  said  Diana.  '  I  am  glad  it  isn't  true.  I  de- 
spise men  that  are  easy  to  manage.  I  am  glad  I  can  re- 
spect him,  at  any  rate.' 

Mrs.  Starling  looked  at  her  daughter  with  an  odd  ex- 
pression. It  was  curious  and  uncertain  ;  but  she  asked  no 
question.  She  seemed  to  change  the  subject ;  though  per- 
haps, the  connection  was  close. 

'  Did  you  hear  the  family  are  coming  to  Elmfield  again 
this  summer  ? ' 

Diana's  lips  formed  the  word  '  no  ; '  the  breath  of  it 
hardly  got  out. 

'Yes,  they're  coming,  sure  enough.  Phemie  will  be 
here  next  week ;  and  her  sister,  what's  her  name  ? — Mrs. 
Reverdy — is  here  now.' 

Silence. 

'  I  suppose  they'll  fill  the  house  with  company,  as  they 
did  last  time,  and  cut  up  their  shines  as  usual.  Well !  they 
don't  come  in  my  way.  But  you'll  have  to  see  'em,  I 
guess.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'  You  know  they  make  a  great  to  do  about  your  hus- 
band in  that  family.  And  Genevieve  Reverdy  seems  un- 
commonly fond  of  you.  She  asked  me  no  end  of  questions 
about  you  on  Sabbath.' 

There  flushed  a  hot  colour  into  Diana's  cheeks,  which 
faded  away  and  left  them  very  pale. 

1  She  hasn't  grown  old  a  bit,'  Mrs.  Starling  went  on, 
talking  rather  uneasily ;  '  nor  she  hain't  grown  wise,  nei- 


338  DIANA. 

ther.  She  can't  ask  you  how  you  do  without  a  giggle. 
And  she  had  dressed  herself  to  come  to  church,  as  if  the 
church  was  a  fair  and  she  was  something  for  sale.  Flow- 
ers, and  feathers,  and  laces,  and  ribbons,  a  little  there,  and 
a  little  here  ;  bows  on  her  gloves,  and  bows  on  her  shoes, 
and  bows  on  her  gown.  I  believed  she  would  have  tucked 
some  into  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  if  they  would  have 
staid.' 

Diana  made  no  reply.  She  was  looking  out  into  the 
sunlit  hillside  in  view  from  her  window,  and  had  grown 
visibly  whiter  since  her  mother  came  in.  Mrs.  Starling  re- 
viewed her  for  that  instant  with  a  keen,  anxious,  search- 
ing gaze,  which  changed  before  Diana  turned  her  head. 

'  I  can't  make  out,  for  my  part,  what  such  folks  are  in 
the  world  for,'  she  went  on.  '  They  don't  do  no  good,  to 
themselves  nor  to  nobody  else.  And  fools  mostly  contrive 
to  do  harm.  Well — she's  coming  to  see  you  j  she'll  be 
along  one  of  these  days.' 

'  To  see  me  !  '  Diana  echoed. 

'  So  she  says.  Maybe  it's  all  flummery.  I  dare  say  it 
is  ;  but  she  talked  a  lot  of  it.  You'd  ha'  thought  there 
warn't  any  one  else  in  the  world  she  cared  about  seeing.' 

Mrs.  Starling  went  up  stairs  at  this  point  to  see  the 
baby,  and  Diana  sat  looking  out  of  the  window  with  her 
thoughts  in  a  wild  confusion  of  pain.  Pain  and  fright,  I 
might  say.  And  yet  her  senses  took  the  most  delicate  no- 
tice of  all  there  was  in  the  world  outside  to  attract  them. 
Could  it  be  June,  once  so  fair  and  laughing,  that  smote 
her  now  with  such  blows  of  memory's  hammer  ?  or  was  it 
Memory  using  June  ?  She  saw  the  bright  glisten  of  the 
leaves  upon  the  hillside,  the  rich  growth  of  the  grass,  the 
fair  beams  of  the  summer  sun ;  she  noticed  minutely  the 
stage  of  development  which  the  chestnut  blossoms  had 


EVANS    SISTER.  339 

reached ;  one  or  two  dandelion  heads ;  a  robin  red. 
breast  that  was  making  himself  exceedingly  at  home  on 
the  little  spread  of  greensward  behind  the  house.  I  don't 
know  if  Diana's  senses  were  trying  to  cheat  her  heart ;  but 
from  one  item  to  another  her  eye  went  and  her  mind  fol- 
lowed, in  a  maze  of  pain  that  was  not  cheated  at  all,  till 
she  heard  her  mother's  steps  forsake  the  house.  Then  Di- 
ana's head  sank.  And  then,  even  at  the  moment,  as  if  the 
robin's  whistle  had  brought  them,  the  words  came  to  her — 
"  Call  upon  me  in  the  day  of  trouble ;  I  will  deliver  thee, 
and  thou  shalt  glorify  me."  An  absolute  promise  of  the 
Lord  to  his  people.  Could  it  be  true,  when  trouble  was  be- 
yond deliverance  ?  And  then  came  Basil's  faith  to  her  help  j 
she  knew  how  he  believed  every  word,  no  matter  how  dif- 
ficult or  impossible ;  and  Diana  fell  on  her  knees  and  hid 
her  face,  and  fled  to  the  one  only  last  refuge  of  earth's  de- 
spairing children.  How  even  God  could  deliver  her,  Di- 
ana did  not  see,  for  the  ground  seemed  giving  away  beneath 
her  feet ;  but  it  is  the  man  who  cannot  swim,  who  clutches  the 
rope  for  life  and  death  ;  and  it  is  when  we  are  hopeless  of 
our  own  strength  that  we  throw  ourselves  utterly  upon  the 
one  hand  that  is  strong.  Diana  was  conscious  of  little  else 
but  of  doing  that ;  to  form  a  connected  prayer  was  beyond 
her  ;  she  rather  held  up  the  promise,  as  it  were  with  both 
hands,  and  pleaded  it  mutely  and  with  the  intensity  of  one 
hovering  between  life  and  death.  The  house  was  still,  she 
feared  no  disturbance  ;  and  she  remained  motionless,  with- 
out change  of  posture  either  of  mind  or  body,  for  some 
length  of  time.  Gradually  the  "  I  will  deliver  thee," — 
"  I  will  deliver  thee " — began  to  emphasize  itself  to  her 
consciousness,  like  a  whisper  in  the  storm,  and  Diana  burst 
into  a  terrible  flood  of  tears.  That  touch  of  divine  sym- 
pathy broke  her  heart.  She  sobbed  for  minutes,  only  keep- 


34O  DIANA. 

ing  her  sobs  too  noiseless  to  reach  and  alarm  Miss  Collins' 
ears ;  till  her  agony  was  softened  and  changed  at  last  into 
something  more  like  a  child's  exhausted  and  humble  tears, 
while  her  breast  rose  and  fell,  so  pitifully.  With  that  came 
also  a  vague  floating  thought  or  two.  '  My  duty — I'll  do 
my  duty — I'll  do  my  duty.' 

It  was  over,  and  she  had  risen  and  was  resting  in  her 
chair,  feeling  weaker  and  yet  much  stronger  than  before  ; 
waiting  till  she  could  dare  shew  her  face  to  Miss  Collins  ; 
when  a  little  low  tap  was  heard  at  the  front  door.  Com- 
pany ?  But  Diana  had  noticed  no  step  and  heard  no 
wheels.  However,  there  was  no  escape  for  her,  if  it  were 
company.  She  waited,  and  the  tap  was  repeated.  I  don't 
know  what  about  it  this  second  time  sent  a  thrill  all  down 
Diana's  nerves.  The  doors  were  open,  and  seeing  that 
Miss  Collins  did  not  stir,  Diana  uttered  a  soft  "  Come  !  " 
She  was  hardly  surprised  at  what  followed ;  she  seemed  to 
know  by  instinct  what  it  would  be. 

'  Where  shall  I  come  ? '  asked  a  voice,  and  a  pair  of  brisk 
high  heeled  shoes  tripped  into  the  house,  and  a  little  trilling 
laugh,  equally  light  and  meaningless,  followed  the  words. 
'  Where  shall  I  come  ?  It's  jm  enchanted  castle — I  see 
nobody.' 

But  the  next  instant  she  could  not  say  that,  for  Diana 
shewed  herself  at  the  door  of  her  room,  and  Mrs.  Reverdy 
hastened  forward.  Diana  was  calm  now,  with  a  possession 
of  herself  which  she  marvelled  at  even  then.  Bringing  her 
visiter  into  the  little  parlour,  she  placed  herself  again  in 
her  chair  with  her  face  turned  from  the  light. 

'  And  here  I  find  you  !  O  you  beautiful  creature ! ' 
Mrs.  Reverdy  burst  out.  '  I  declare,  I  don't  wonder  at — 
anything !  '  and  she  laughed.  The  laugh  grated  terribly  on 
Diana.  '  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  a  beauty  you  are  ? ; 


EVAN  S    SISTER.  341 

she  went  on — '  I  declare  ! — I  didn't  know  you  were  half  so 
handsome.  Have  you  changed,  since  three  years  ago  ? ' 

;  I  think  I  must,'  Diana  said  quietly. 

'  But  where  have  you  been  ?  Living  here  in  Pleasant 
Valley  ? '  was  the  next  not  very  polite  question. 

'  People  do  live  in  Pleasant  Valley.  Did  you  think 
not  ? '  Diana  answered. 

'  O  yes.  No.  Not  what  we  call  life,  you  know.  And 
you  were  always  handsome  ;  but  three  years  ago  you  were 
just  Diana  Starling,  and  now — you  might  be  anybody! ' 

'  I  am  Mr.  Masters'  wife,'  said  Diana,  setting  her  teeth 
as  it  were  upon  the  words. 

'  Yes,  I  heard.  How  happened  it  ?  Do  you  know,  I 
am  afraid  you  have  done  a  great  deal  of  mischief  ?  O  you 
handsome  women ! — you  have  a  great  deal  to  account  for, 
Did  you  never  think  you  had  another  admirer  ? — in  those 
days  long  ago,  you  know  ? ' 

'What  if  I  had?'     Diana  said  almost  fiercely. 

'  Oh,  of  course,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  with  her  laugh 
again, — '  of  course  it  is  nothing  to  you  now ;  girls  are  hard- 
hearted towards  their  old  lovers,  I  know  that.  But  weren't 
you  a  little  tender  towards  him  once  ?  He  hasn't  forgotten 
his  part,  I  can  tell  you.  You  mustn't  be  too  hard-hearted, 
Diana.' 

If  the  woman  could  have  spoken  without  laughing ! 
That  little  meaningless  trill  at  the  end  of  everything  made 
Diana  nearly  wild.  She  could  find  no  answer  to  the  last 
speech  and  so  remained  silent. 

'  Now  I  have  seen  you  again,  I  declare  I  don't  wonder 
at  anything.  I  was  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him,  you 
know,  thinking  it  was  just  a  boyish  foolish  fancy  that  he 
ought  to  get  over;  I  was  a  little  out  of  patience  with  him ; 
but  now  I  see  you,  I  take  it  all  back.  I  declare,  you're  a 


342  DIANA. 

woman  the  men  might  rave  about.  You  mustn't  mind  if 
they  do.' 

'  There  is  another  question — whether  my  husband  will 
mind.'  She  said  the  words  with  a  hard  relentless  force 
upon  herself. 

'  Is  he  jealous  ? '  laughing. 

'  He  has  no  reason.' 

'  Reason  !  O  people  are  jealous  without  reason  ;  they 
don't  wait  for  that.  Better  without  than  with.  How  is 
Mr.  Masters  ?  is  he  one  of  that  kind  ?  And  how  came  he 
to  marry  you  ? ' 

'  You  ought  not  to  wonder  at  it,  with  the  opinion  you 
have  expressed  of  me.' 

'  O  no,  I  don't  wonder  at  all !  But  somebody  else 
wanted  to  marry  you  too  ;  and  somebody  else  thought  he 
had  the  best  right.  I  am  afraid  you  flirted  with  him.  Or 
was  it  with  Mr.  Masters  you  flirted  ?  I  didn't  think  you 
were  a  girl  to  flirt ;  but  I  see  !  You  would  keep  just 
quietly  still,  and  they  would  flutter  round  you,  like  moths 
round  a  candle,  and  it  would  be  their  own  fault  if  they 
both  got  burned.  Has  Mr.  Masters  got  burned  ?  My 
poor  moth  has  singed  his  wings  badljt,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
am  very  sorry  for  him.' 

'  So  am  I,'  Diana  said  gravely. 

'  Are  you  ?  Are  you  really  ?  Are  you  sorry  for  him  ? 
May  I  tell  him  you  are  sorry  ? ' 

'  You  have  not  said  whom  you  are  talking  about,' 
Diana  answered  with  a  coldness  which  she  wondered  at 
when  she  said  it. 

'  O  but  you  know  !  There  is  only  one  person  I  could 
be  talking  about.  There  is  only  one  I  could  care  enough 
about  to  be  talking  for  him.  You  cannot  help  but  know. 
May  I  tell  him  you  say  you  are  sorry  for  him  ?  It  would 
be  a  sort  of  comfort,  and  he  wants  it.' 


EVAN  S    SISTER.  343 

'  You  must  ask  Mr.  Masters.' 

« What  ? ' 

'  That.' 

'  Whether  I  may  tell  Evan  you  are  sorry  for  him  ? ' 

'  Whether  you  may  tell  that  to  anybody.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  tell  it  to  but  one,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy 
laughing.  '  What  has  Mr.  Masters  to  do  with  it  ? ' 

'  He  is  my  husband.'  And  calmly  as  Diana  said  it, 
she  felt  as  if  she  would  like  to  shriek  out  the  words  to  the 
birds  on  the  hillside — to  the  angels,  if  there  were  angels 
in  the  air.  Yet  she  said  it  calmly. 

'  But  do  you  ask  your  husband  about  everything  you 
do.  or  say  ? ' 

'  If  I  think  he  would  not  like  it.' 

'But  that  is  giving  him  a  great  deal  of  power, — too 
much.  Husband's  are  fallible,  as  well  as  wives,'  said  Mrs. 
Reverdy  laughing. 

'  Mr.  Masters  is  not  fallible.  At  least,  I  never  saw 
him  fail  in  anything.  If  he  ever  made  a  mistake,  it  was 
when  he  married  me.' 

'  And  you  ? '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy.  '  Didn't  you  make  a 
mistake  too  ? ' 

'  In  marrying  somebody  so  much  too  good  for  me — 
yes,'  Diana  answered. 

The  little  woman  was  a  good  deal  baffled. 

1  Then  have  you  really  no  kind  word  for  Evan  ?  must  I 
tell  him  so  ? ' 

Diana  felt  as  if  her  brain  would  have  reeled  in  another 
minute.  Before  she  could  answer,  came  the  sound  of  a 
little  wailing  cry  from  the  room  up  stairs,  and  she  started 
up.  That  movement  was  sudden,  but  the  next  were  collected 
and  slow.  '  You  will  excuse  me,'  she  said, — '  I  hear  baby,' 
— and  she  passed  from  the  room  like  a  princess.  If  her 


344  DIANA. 

manner  had  been  less  discouraging,  I  think  Mrs.  Reverdy 
would  have  still  pursued  her  point  and  asked  leave  to  fol- 
low her  and  see  the  baby ;  but  Diana's  slow  languid  dig- 
nity and  gracious  composure  imposed  upon  the  little 
woman,  and  she  gave  up  the  game  ;  at  least  for  the  present. 
When  Miss  Collins,  set  free,  hurried  down,  Mrs.  Reverdy 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HUSBAND     AND     WIFE. 

HAD  she  no  kind  word  for  Evan  ?  Diana  felt  as  if  her 
heart  would  snap  some  one  of  its  cords  and  give  over  its 
weary  beating  at  once  and  forever.  No  kind  word  for 
Evan  ?  her  beloved,  her  betrayed,  her  life-treasure  once, 
towards  whom  still  all  the  wealth  of  her  heart  longed  to 
pour  itself  out ;  and  she  might  not  send  him  one  kind 
word  ?  And  he  did  not  know  that  she  had  been  true  to 
him  ;  and  yet  he  had  remained  true  to  her.  Might  he  not 
know  so  much  as  that,  and  that  her  heart  was  breaking  as 
well  as  his  ?  Only  it  would  not  break.  All  the  pain  of 
death  without  its  cessation  of  consciousness.  Why  not  let 
him  have  one  word  to  know  that  she  loved  him  still  and 
would  always  love  him  ?  Truth — truth  and  duty — loyal 
faith  to  her  husband,  the  man  whom  in  her  mistake  she 
had  married.  O  why  could  not  such  mistakes  be  undone  ! 
But  they  never  could,  never.  It  was  a  living  death,  that 
she  was  condemned  to  die. 

I  cannot  say  that  Diana  really  wavered  at  all  in  her  truth 
but  this  was  an  hour  of  storm  never  to  be  remembered  without 
shuddering.  She  had  her  baby  in  her  arms,  but  the  mother's 
instincts  were  for  the  time  swallowed  up  in  the  stormier 
passions  of  the  woman.  She  cared  for  it  and  ministered 
to  it,  tenderly  as  ever,  yet  in  a  mechanical,  automatic  sort 
of  way,  taking  no  comfort  and  finding  no  relief  in  her  sweet 


346  DIANA. 

duty.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  storm  and  the  howling  of 
temptation  which  overwhelmed  every  other  voice  in  her  heart. 
Then  there  were  practical  questions  to  be  met.  Mrs.  Rev- 
erdy  and  her  family  at  Elmfield,  who  could  guaranty  that 
Evan  would  not  get  a  furlough  and  come  there  too  ?  Mrs. 
Reverdy's  words  seemed  to  have  some  ultimate  design, 
which  they  had  not  indeed  declared  ;  they  had  the  air  of 
somewhat  different  from  mere  aimless  rattle  or  mischievous 
gossip.  Suppose  Evan  were  to  come  ?  What  then  ? 

The  baby  went  off  to  sleep,  and  was  laid  away  in  its 
crib,  and  the  mother  stood  alone  at  the  window  wrestling 
with  her  pain.  She  felt  helpless  in  the  grasp  of  it  as  almost 
never  before.  Danger  was  looming  up  and  threatening  dark 
in  the  distance ;  there  might  be  a  whirlwind  coming  out 
of  that  storm  quarter,  and  how  was  she  going  to  stand  in 
the  whirlwind?  Beyond  the  wordless  cry  which  meant 
'  Lord  help  me  ! ' — Diana  could  hardly  pray  at  all  at  this 
moment ;  and  the  feeling  grew,  that  she  must  have  human 
help.  'Tell  Basil ' — a  whisper  said  in  her  heart.  She  had 
shunned  that  thought  always,  she  had  judged  it  no  use  ;  now 
she  was  driven  to  it.  He  must  know  the  whole.  Perhaps 
then  he  could  tell  her  what  to  do. 

As  soon  as  Diana's  mind  through  all  its  tossings 
and  turnings  had  fixed  upon  this  point,  she  went  immedi- 
ately from  thought  to  action.  It  was  twilight  now,  or  almost. 
Basil  would  not  come  home  in  time  for  a  talk  before  sup- 
per ;  supper  must  be  ready,  so  as  to  have  no  needless  de- 
lay. She  could  wait,  now  she  knew  what  she  would  do  ; 
though  there  was  a  fire  burning  at  heart  and  brain.  She 
went  down  stairs  and  ordered  something  got  ready  for  sup- 
per ;  finished  the  arrangement  of  the  tea-table,  which  her 
husband  liked  to  have  very  dainty;  picked  a  rose  for  his 
plate,  though  it  seemed  dreadful  mockery ;  and  as  soon  as 


HUSBAND   AND   WIFE.  347 

she  heard  his  step  at  the  door,  she  made  the  tea.  What  an 
atmosphere  of  sweet,calm  brightness  he  brought  in  with  him, 
and  always  brought.  It  struck  Diana  now  with  the  kind 
of  a  shiver  which  a  person  in  a  fever  feels  at  the  touch  of 
fresh  air.  Yet  she  recognized  the  beauty  of  it,  and  it  fortified 
her  in  her  resolve.  She  would  be  true  to  this  man,  though 
she  died  for  it !  There  was  nothing  but  truth  in  him. 

She  got  through  the  meal  time  as  she  could ;  swallowed 
tea,  and  even  eat  bread,  without  knowing  how  it  tasted, 
and  heard  Basil  talk  without  knowing  what  he  said.  As 
soon  as  she  could  she  went  up  stairs  to  the  baby,  and  wait- 
ed till  her  husband  should  come  too.  But  when  he  came, 
he  came  to  her.  and  did  not  go  to  his  study. 

'  Basil  I  want  to  speak  to  you — will  you  come  into  the 
other  room  ? '  she  said  huskily. 

'  Wont  this  room  do  to  talk  in  ? ' 

'  No.     It  is  over  the  kitchen.' 

'  Jemima  knows  I  never  quarrel — '  said  Basil  lightly ; 
however  he  led  the  way  into  the  study.  He  set  a  chair  for 
Diana  and  took  another  himself,  but  she  remained  stand- 
ing. 

'  Basil — is  God  good  ? '  she  said. 

'  Yes.     Inexpressibly  good.' 

'  Then  why  does  he  let  such  things  happen  ? ' 

'Sit  down,  Di.  You  are  not  strong  enough  to  talk 
standing.  Such  things  ?  What  things  ? ' 

'  Why  does  he  let  people  be  tempted  above  what  they 
can  bear  ? ' 

'  He  never  does — his  children — if  that  is  what  you 
mean.  He  always  provides  a  way  of  escape.' 

'  Where  ? ' 

'  At  Christ's  feet.' 

'  Basil,  how  can  I  get  there  ? '  she  said  with  a  sob. 


348  DIANA. 

'  You  are  there  my  darling/  he  said,  putting  her  gently 
into  the  easy  chair  she  had  disregarded.  'Those  who 
trust  in  him,  his  hand  never  lets  go.  They  may  seem  to 
themselves  to  lose  their  standing — they  may  not  feel  the 
ground  under  their  feet — but  He  knows  ;  and  he  will  not 
let  them  fall.  If  they  hold  fast  to  him,  Diana.' 

'  Basil,  you  don't  know  the  whole.' 

'  Do  you  want  to  tell  me  ? ' 

Her  voice  was  abrupt  and  hoarse ;  his  was  calm  and 
cool  as  the  fall  of  the  dew. 

'  I  want  to  tell  you  if  I  can.     But  I  shall  hurt  you.' 

'  I  am  very  willing,  if  it  eases  you.     Go  on.' 

'  It  wont  ease  me.  But  you. must  know  it.  You  ought 
to  know.  O  Basil,  I  made  such  a  mistake  when  I  married 
you  !  ' — 

She  did  not  mean  to  say  anything  so  bitter  as  that ; 
she  was  where  she  could  not  measure  her  words.  Perhaps 
his  face  paled  a  little  ;  in  the  faint  light  she  could  not  see 
the  change  of  colour.  His  voice  did  not  change. 

'  What  new  has  brought  that  up  ? ' 

'Nothing  new.  Something  old.  O  Basil — his  sister 
has  been  here  to-day  to  see  me.' 

'  Has  she  ?'  His  voice  did  change  a  little  then.  '  What 
did  she  come  for  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  And  he  will  be  here  perhaps  by  and 
by.  O  Basil,  do  you  know  who  it  is  ?  And  what  shall  I 
do?' 

Diana  had  sprung  up  from  her  chair  and  dropped  down 
on  the  floor  by  her  husband's  side  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands  on  his  knee.  His  hand  passed  tenderly,  sorrowfully, 
over  the  beautiful  hair  which  lay  in  disordered,  bright,  soft 
masses  over  head  and  neck.  For  a  moment  he  did  not 
speak. 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE.  349 

'  Basil — do  you  know  who  it  is  ? ' 
'  I  know.' 

'What  shall  I  do?' 
'  What  do  you  want  to  do,  Diana  ? ' 
'  Right — '  she  said  gasping,  without  looking  up. 
'  I  am  sure  of  it ! '  he  said  tenderly.     '  Well  then — the 
only  way  is,  to  go  on  and  do  right,  Diana.' 

'  But  how  can  I  ?  how  shall  I  ?     Suppose  he   comes  ? 

0  Basil,  it  was  all  a  mistake  ;  he  wrote,  and  mother  kept 
back  the  letters,  and  I  never  got  them  ;  he  sent  them,  and 

1  never  got  them ;  and  I  thought  he  was  not  true  and  it 
did  not  matter  what  I  did,  and  I  honoured  you  above  every- 
thing, Basil — and  so — and  so — I  did  what  I  did — ' 

'What  cannot  be  undone.' 

'  No — '  she  said  shivering. 

He  passed  his  hands  again  over  her  soft  hair,  and  bent 
down  and  kissed  it. 

'  You  honour  yourself,  too,  Diana,  as  well  as  me.' 

'  Yes — '  she  said  under  breath. 

'  And  you  honour  our  God,  who  has  let  all  this  come 
upon  us  both.' 

'  But,  O  Basil !  how  could  he  ?  how  could  he  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'  And  yet  you  say  he  is  good  ? ' 

'  And  so  you  say  too.  The  only  good ;  the  utterly,  per- 
fectly good ;  who  loves  his  people,  and  keeps  his  promises, 
and  who  has  said  that  all  things  shall  work  together  for  the 
good  of  those  that  love  him.' 

'  How  can  such  a  thing  as  this  ? '  she  said  faintly. 

'  Suppose  you  and  I  cannot  see  how  ?  Then  faith  comes 
in  and  believes  it  without  seeing.  We  shall  see  by  and  ly.' 

'  But  Basil — suppose — Evan — comes  ? ' 

'  Well  ? ' 


350  DIANA. 

'  Suppose — he  came — here  ? ' 

'  Well,  Diana  ? ' 

She  was  silent  then,  but  she  shook  and  trembled  and 
writhed.  Her  head  was  still  where  she  had  laid  it ;  her 
face  hidden. 

'  You  are  going  through  as  great  a  trial,  my  poor  wife, 
as  almost  ever  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  mortal.  But  you  will  go 
through  it,  and  come  out  from  it ;  and  then  it  will  be  found 
to  have  been  "  unto  praise  and  honour  and  glory  " — by 
and  by.' 

'  O  how  can  you  tell  ! ' 

'  I  trust  in  God.     And  I  trust  you.' 

'But  I  think  he  will  come — here  to  Pleasant  Valley,  I 
mean.  And  if  he  comes, — here,  to  this  house,  I  mean, — ' 

'  What  then  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? ' 

'  About  seeing  him.  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'What  you  like  best  to  do,  Diana.' 

'  Basil — he  does  not  know.' 

'  What  does  he  not  know  ? ' 

'  About  the  letters  or  anything.  He  has  never  heard 
— never  a  word  from  me.' 

'  There  was  an  understanding  between  you  before  he 
went  away  ? ' 

'  Oh  yes  ! ' 

Both  were  silent  again  for  a  time  ;  silent  and  still. 
Then  Diana  spoke  timidly. 

'  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  for  him  to  know  ? ' 

Her  husband  delayed  his  answer  a  little  ;  truly  if  Diana 
had  something  to  suffer,  so  had  he  ;  and  I  suppose  there  was 
somewhat  of  a  struggle  in  his  own  mind  to  be  won  through  j 
however,  the  answer  when  it  came  was  a  quiet  negative. 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE.  351 

'  May  I  write  and  tell  him  ? ' 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  fingers  as  he  replied — '  I 
will.' 

'  O  Basil,'  said  the  woman  at  his  feet,  '  I  have  wished  I 
could  die  a  thousand  times  ! — and  I  am  well  and  strong, 
and  I  cannot  die.' 

'  No,'  he  said  gravely ;  '  we  must  not  run  away  from  our 
work.'  • 

'  Work  ! '  said  Diana,  sitting  back  now  and  looking  up  at 
him, — '  what  work  ? ' 

4  The  work  our  Master  has  given  us  to  do  to  glorify 
him.  To  fight  with  evil  and  overcome  it ;  to  endure  temp- 
tation, and  baffle  it ;  to  carry  our  banner  of  salvation  through 
the  thick  of  the  smoke  and  the  fire,  and  never  let  it  fall.' 

'  I  am  so  weak,  I  cannot  fight.' 

'  The  fight  of  faith  you  can.  The  only  sort  of  fighting 
that  can  prevail.  Faith  lays  hold  of  Christ's  strength,  and 
so  comes  off  more  than  conqueror.  All  you  can  do,  is  to 
hold  fast  to  him.' 

'  O  Basil  !  why  does  he  let  such  things  happen  ?  why 
does  he  let  such  things  happen  ?  Here  is  my  life  broken 
• — and  yours  ;  both  broken  and  ruined.' 

'  No,'  the  minister  answered  quietly, — '  not  mine  nor 
yours.  Broken,  if  you  will,  but  not  ruined.  Neither  yours 
nor  mine,  Diana.  With  the  love  of  Christ  in  our  hearts, 
that  can  never  be.  He  will  not  let  it  be.' 

'  It  is  all  ruined,'  said  Diana  ;  '  it  is  all  ruined.  I  am 
full  of  evil  thoughts,  and  no  good  left.  I  have  wished  to 
die  and  I  have  wanted  to  run  away — I  felt  as  if  I  must — ' 

'  But  instead  of  dying  or  running  away,  you  have  stood 
nobly  and  bravely  to  your  post  of  suffering.  Wait  and 
trust.  The  Lord  means  good  to  us  yet.' 

'  What  possible  good  ? ' 


352  DIANA. 

'  Perhaps,  that  being  stripped  of  all  else,  we  may  come 
to  know  Him.' 

'  Is  it  necessary,  that  people  should  be  stripped  of  all, 
before  they  can  do  that  ? ' 

'  Sometimes.' 

Diana  stood  still,  and  again  there  was  silence  in  the 
room.  The  soft  June  air,  heavy  with  the  breath  of  roses, 
floated  in  at  the  open  window,  bringing  one  of  those  sharp 
contrasts  which  make  the  heart  sick  with  memory  and  long- 
ing ;  albeit  the  balsam  of  promise  be  there  too.  People  miss 
that.  "  Now  men  see  not  the  bright  light  that  is  in  the 
clouds  ; "  and  how  should  they  ?  when  the  darkness  of  night 
seems  to  have  fallen  ;  how  can  they  even  remember  that  be- 
hind that  screen  of  darkness  there  is  a  flood  of  glory  ? 
There  came  in  sounds  at  the  window  too,  from  the  garden 
and  the  wood  on  the  hillside  ,  cherruping  sounds  of  insects 
mingled  with  the  slight  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  trickle  of 
water  from  a  little  brook  which  made  all  the  noise  it  could 
over  the  stones  in  its  way  down  the  hill.  The  voices  were 
of  tender  peace ;  the  roses  and  the  small  life  of  nature  all 
really  told  of  love  and  care  which  can  as  little  fail  for  the 
Lord's  children  as  for  the  furniture  of  their  dwelling  place. 
Yet  that  very  unchangeableness  of  nature  hurts,  which 
should  comfort.  Diana  stood  still,  desolate,  to  her  own 
sense  seeming  a  ruin  already  ;  and  her  husband  sat  in  his 
place,  also  still,  but  he  was  calm.  They  were  quiet  long 
enough  to  think  of  many  things. 

'You  are  very  good,  Basil ! '  Diana  said  at  last. 

It  was  one  of  those  words  which  hurt  unreasonably. 
Not  because  they  are  not  true  words  and  heartily  meant, 
but  because  they  are  the  poor  substitute  for  those  we  would 
like  to  hear,  and  give  us  an  ugly  scale  to  measure  distances 
and  differences  by.  Basil  made  no  sort  of  answer.  Diana 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE.  353 

stood  still.  In  her  confusion  of  thoughts  she  did  not  miss 
the  answer.  Then  she  begain  again. 

'  Evan — I  mean,  Basil ! ' — and  she  started — '  I  wish  we 
could  get  away.' 

'  From  Pleasant  Valley  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  My  work  is  here.' 

Is  mine  here  too  ?  thought  Diana  as  she  slowly  went 
away  into  the  other  room.  What  is  mine  ?  To  die  by  this 
fire  that  burns  in  me  ;  or  to  freeze  stiff  in  the  cold  that 
sometimes  almost  stops  my  heart's  beating  ?  She  came  up 
to  the  side  of  her  baby's  crib  and  stood  there  looking,  dim- 
ly conscious  of  an  inner  voice  that  said  her  work  was  not 
death. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SUNSHINE. 

A  FEW  days  later,  the  minister  came  home  one  evening 
with  a  message  for  his  wife. 

'  Good  old  Mother  Bartlett  is  going  home,  Diana,  and 
she  wants  to  see  you.' 

'  Home  ?     Is  she  dying,  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  She  does  not  mean  it.    To  her,  it  is  entering  into  life.' 

'  But  what's  the  matter  ? ' 

'  You  know  she  had  that  bad  cold.  I  think  the  treat- 
ment was  worse  than  the  disease ;  and  under  the  effects  of 
both  her  strength  seems  to  have  given  way.  She  is  sinking 
quietly.' 

'  I  will  go  down  there  in  the  morning.' 

So  the  next  day,  early,  Basil  drove  his  wife  down  and 
left  her  at  the  cottage.  It  was  somehow  to  Diana's  feeling 
just  such  another  day  as  had  been  that  other  wonderful 
one  when  she  had  seen  Evan  first,  and  he  harnessed  Prince 
and  they  came  together  over  this  very  road.  Perhaps  soon 
Evan  would  be  riding  there  again,  without  her,  as  she  was 
going  now  without  him.  Never  together  again,  ne  /er  to- 
gether again  !  and  what  was  life  to  either  of  them  apart  ? 
Diana  went  into  the  cottage  walking  as  one  in  a  dream. 

The  cottage  was  in  nice  order,  as  usual,  though  no  wo- 
man's hand  had  been  about.  Joe,  rough  as  he  was,  could  be 
what  his  friends  called  "  real  handy ; "  and  he  had  put 

354 


SUNSHINE.  355 

everything  in  trim  and  taken  all  care  for  his  mother's  com- 
fort before  he  went  out.  The  minister  had  told  him  Diana 
would  be  there ;  so  after  he  had  done  this  he  went  to  his 
work.  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  lying  on  her  bed  in  the  inner 
room.  Diana  kissed  her,  with  a  heart  too  full  at  the  mo- 
ment to  speak. 

'  Did  the  minister  bring  you  ? '  the  old  lady  asked. 

'  Yes.     Are  you  all  alone  ? ' 

'  The  Lord  never  leaves  his  children  alone,  dear. 
They  leave  him  sometimes.  Wont  you  open  the  winders, 
Diana.  Joe  forgot  that,  and  I  want  to  see  the  sun.' 

,  Diana  rolled  up  the  thick  paper  shades  which  hung 
over  the  windows,  and  put  up  the  sashes.  Summer  air 
poured  in,  so  full  of  warmth  and  brightness  and  sounds  of 
nature's  activity,  that  it  seemed  to  roll  up  a  tide  of  life  to 
the  very  feet  of  the  dying  woman.  She  looked  and  drew  a 
deep  breath  or  two. 

'  That's  good  ! '  she  said.  '  The  Lord  made  the  sun- 
shine. Now  sit  down,  dear  ;  I  want  to  see  you.  Sit  down 
there,  where  I  can  see  you.' 

'  Does  Joe  leave  you  here  by  yourself  ? ' 

'  He  knew  you  was  comin'.  Joe's  a  good  boy.  But  I 
don't  want  him  nor  nobody  hangin'  round  all  the  time, 
Diana.  There  ain't  nothin'  to  do ;  only  he  forgot  the 
winders,  and  I  want  to  look  out  and  see  all  my  riches.' 

'Your  riches,  Mother  Bartlett?  ' — And  she  was  not  go- 
ing to  live  but  a  few  days  more.  Diana  wondered  if  her 
senses  were  wandering.  But  the  old  lady  smiled  ;  the  wise, 
sweet  smile  that  Diana  knew  of  old. 

'  Whose  be  they,  then  ? '  she  asked. 

'  You  mean,  all  this  pretty  summer  day  ? ' 

'  Ain't  it  pretty  !  And  ain't  the  sunshine  clear  gold  ? 
And  ain't  the  sky  a  kind  of  an  elegant  canopy  ?  And  it's 


3$6  DIANA. 

all  mine,  and  all  it  covers,  and  He  that  made  it  too  ;  and 
seein'  what  he  makes,  puts  me  in  mind  of  how  rich  he  is 
and  what  more  he  kin  do.  How's  the  baby  ? ' 

For  some  little  time  the  baby  was  talked  of,  in  both 
present  and  future  relations. 

'  And  you're  very  happy,  Diana  ? '  the  old  woman  asked. 
*  I  hain't  seen  you  now  for  quite  a  spell — 'most  all  winter.' 

'  I  ought  to  be — '  Diana  answered,  hesitating. 

'  Some  things  folks  does  because  they  had  ought  to,' 
remarked  the  old  lady,  'but  bein'  happy  ain't  one  of  'em. 
The  whole  world  had  ought  to  be  happy,  if  you  put  it  so. 
The  Lord  wants  'em  to  be.' 

'  Not  happy  ' — said  Diana  hastily. 

'  Yes.     'Tain't  his  fault  if  they  ain't.' 

'  How  can  he  want  everybody  to  be  happy,  when  he 
makes  them  so  unhappy  ? ' 

'  He  ?  the  Lord  ?  He  don't  make  nobody  unhappy, 
child.  How  did  that  git  in  your  head  ? ' 

'  Well  it  comes  to  the  same  thing,  Mother  Bartlett.  He 
lets  things  happen.' 

'  He  hain't  chained  up  Satan  yet,  if  that's  what  you 
mean.  But  Satan  can't  do  no  harm  to  the  Lord's  children. 
He's  tried,  often  enough,  but  the  Lord  wont  let  him.' 

1  But  Mother  Bartlett,  that's  only  a  way  of  talking.  I 
don't  know  if  it  is  Satan  does  it,  but  every  sort  of  terrible 
thing  comes  to  them.  How  can  you  say  it's  not  evil  ? ' 

1  'Cause  the  good  Lord  turns  it  to  blessing,  dear.  Or 
if  he  don't,  it's  'cause  they  wont  let  him.  O'  course  it  is 
Satan  does  it — Satan  and  his  ministers.  "  Every  good  gift 
and  every  perfect  gift  cometh  down  from  the  Father  of 
lights,  with  whom  is  no  variableness,  neither  shadow  of 
turning."  How  should  he  be  kind  to-day  and  unkind  to- 
morrow ? ' 


SUNSHINE.  357 

Diana  could  not  trust  her  voice  and  was  silent.  The 
old  woman  looked  at  her,  and  said  in  a  changed  tone  pres- 
ently, 

*  What's  come  to  you,  Diana  Masters  ?  You  had  ought 
to  be  the  happiest  woman  there  is  livin'.' 

Diana  could  not  answer. 

'  Ain't  you,  dear  ? '  Mrs.  Bartlett  added  tenderly. 

'  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  of  myself,'  Diana  said,  making 
a  tremendous  effort  to  bring  out  her  words  unconcernedly ; 
'but  I  get  utterly  puzzled  sometimes,  Mother  Bartlett, 
when  I  see  such  things  happen — such  things  as  do  happen, 
and  to  good  people  too.' 

'You  ain't  the  fust  one  that's  been  puzzled  that  way,' 
returned  the  old  woman.  '  Job  was  all  out  in  his  reckoning 
once,  and  David  was  as  stupid  as  a  beast,  he  says.  But 
when  chillen  gets  into  the  dark,  they're  apt  to  run  agin 
sun'thin'  and  hurt  theirselves.  Stay  in  the  light,  dear.' 

'  How  can  one,  always  ? ' 

1  O  child,  jes'  believe  the  Lord's  word.  That'll  keep 
you  near  him  ;  and  there  is  no  darkness  where  he  is.' 

'  What  is  his  word,  that  I  must  believe  ? — about  this,  I 
mean.' 

'  That  he  loves  us,  dear ;  loves  us  tender  and  true ; 
like  you  love  your  little  baby,  only  a  deal  more  ;  and  truer, 
and  tenderer.  For  a  woman  may  forget  her  sucking  child  ; 
but  he  never  will  forget.  And  all  things  he  will  make  to 
"  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love  him."  ' 

Diana  shook  and  trembled  with  the  effort  to  command 
herself  and  not  burst  into  a  storm  of  weeping  which  would 
have  betrayed  what  she  did  not  choose  to  betray.  She  sat 
by  the  bedpost,  clasping  it,  and  with  the  same  clasp  as  it 
were  holding  herself.  For  a  moment  she  had  "  forgotten 
her  sucking  child," — the  words  came  home ;  and  it  was 


358  DIANA. 

only  by  that  convulsive  hold  of  herself  that  she  could  keep 
from  crying  out.  With  her  face  turned  away  from  the  sick 
woman,  she  waited  till  the  convulsion  had  passed  ;  and  then 
said  in  measured,  deliberate  accents, 

'  It  is  hard  to  see  how  some  things  can  turn  out  for 
good — some  things  I  have  known.' 

'  Well,  you  ain't  infinite,  be  you  ? '  said  Mrs.  Bartlett. 
'  You  can't  see  into  the  futur'  ;  and  what's  more,  you  can't 
see  into  the  present.  You  don't  know  what's  goin'  on  in 
your  own  heart — not  as  he  knows  it.  No  more  you  ain't 
almighty,  to  change  things.  If  I  was  you,  I  would  jest 
trust  him  that  is  all-wise  and  knows  everything,  and  al- 
mighty and  kin  do  what  he  likes.' 

'  Then  why  don't  he  make  people  good  ? ' 

'  I  said,  he  kin  do  what  he  likes.  He  don't  like  to  do 
people's  own  work  for  'em.  He  doos  make  'em  good,  as 
soon  as  they're  willin'  and  ask  him.  But  the  man  sick  with 
the  palsy  had  to  rise  and  take  up  his  bed  and  walk  ;  and 
what's  more,  he  had  to  believe  fust  he  could  do  it.  I  know 
the  Lord  gave  the  power,  but  the  man  had  his  part,  you 
see.' 

'  Mother  Bartlett,'  said  Diana  rousing  herself, '  you  must 
not  talk  so  much.' 

'  Don't  do  me  no  harm,  Diana.' 

'  But  you  have  talked  enough.  Now  let  me  give  you 
your  broth.' 

'  Then  you  must  talk.  I  hain't  so  many  opportunities 
o'  social  converse  that  I  kin  afford  to  let  one  of  'em  slip. 
You  must  talk  while  I'm  eatin'.' 

But  Diana  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say.  She  watch- 
ed the  spoonfuls  of  broth  in  attentive  silence. 

'  What's  new,  Diana  ?  there  allays  is  -sun'thin'.' 

'  Nothing  new.     Only ' — said  Diana  correcting  herself, 


SUNSHINE.  359 

'  the  Knowltons  are  coming  back  to  Elmfield.  Mrs.  Rev- 
erdy  is  come.' 

'  Be  the  hull  o'  them  comin'  ? ' 

'  I  believe  so.' 

'  What  for  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.     To  enjoy  the  summer,  I  suppose.' ; 

'  That's  their  sort,'  said  the  old  woman  slowly.  'Jest  to 
get  pleasure.  I  used  for  to  see  'em  flyin'  past  here  in  all 
the  colours  o'  the  rSmbow — last  time  they  was  in  Pleasant 
Valley.' 

'  But  God  made  the  colours  of  the  rainbow, '  said  Diana. 

'  So  he  did,'  the  old  lady  answered,  laughing  a  little. 
'  So  he  did  ;  and  the  colours  of  the  flowers,  which  is  the 
same  colours  to  be  sure  ;  .but  what  then,  Diana  ? ' 

'  I  was  thinking,  Mother  Bartlett — it  cannot  displease 
him  that  we  should  like  them  too.' 

'  No,  child,  it  don't ;  nor  it  don't  displease  him  to  have 
us  wear  'em,  nother, — if  we  could  only  wear  'em  as  inner- 
cently  as  the  flowers  doos.  If  you  kin,  Diana,  you  may  be  as 
scarlet  as  a  tulip  or  as  bright  as  a  marigold,  for  all  I  care.' 

'  But  people  are  not  any  better  for  putting  on  dark  col- 
ours,' said  Diana. 

'  They're  some  modester,  though.' 

'Why?' 

'  They  ain't  expectin'  that  folks'll  be  lookin'  at  'em.' 

'  Mr.  Masters  likes  me  to  wear  bright  dresses.' 

'  Then  do  it,  child.  It's  considerable  of  a  pleasure  to 
have  his  eyes  pleased.  Do  you  know  what  a  husband 
you've  got,  Diana  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  He's  most  like  one  o'  them  flowers  himself.  He's  so 
full  o'  the  sweetness  the  Lord  has  put  into  him,  and  he's 
jest  as  unconscious  that  he's  spreadin'  it  wherever  he  goes.' 


360  DIANA. 

Diana  was  silent.  She  would  have  liked  again  to  burst 
into  tears ;  she  controlled  herself,  as  before. 

'  That  ain't  the  way  with  those  Knowlton  girls ;  nor  it 
ain't  the  way  they  wear  their  fine  colours,  neither.  Can't 
you  get  a  little  sense  into  their  heads,  Diana  ? ' 

'  I  ?     They  think  nothing  of  me,  Mother  Bartlett.' 

'  Maybe  not,  two  years  ago,  but  they  will  now.  You're 
the  minister's  wife,  Diana.  They  allays  sot  a  great  deal 
by  him.' 

Diana  was  chewing  the  cud  of  this,  when  Mrs.  Bartlett 
asked  again, 

'  Who's  sick  in  the  place  ? ' 

'  Quite  a  number.  There's  Mrs.  Wilson  at  the  tavern ; 
she's  sinking  at  last ;  my  husband  sees  her  every  day. 
Then  old  Josh  Lightfoot — he's  down  with  I  don't  know 
what ;  very  sick.  Mrs.  Saddler  has  a  child  that  has  been 
hurt ;  he  was  pitched  off  a  load  of  hay  and  fell  upon  a 
fork  ;  his  mother  is  distracted  about  him,  and  it  is  all  Mr. 
Masters  can  do  to  quiet  her.  And  Lizzie  Satterthwaite  is 
going  slowly,  you  know,  in  consumption,  and  she  expects 
to  see  him  every  day.  And  that  isn't  all ;  for  over  in  the 
village  of  Bromble  there  is  sickness — I  suppose  there  al- 
ways is  in  that  miserable  place.' 

'  And  the  minister  goes  there  too,  I'll  be  bound  ? ' 

'  O  yes.  He  goes  everywhere,  if  people  want  him.  It 
takes  twenty  miles  of  riding  a  day,  he  told  me,  just  to  visit 
all  these  people  that  he  must,  see.' 

'Ay,  ay,'  said  the  old  woman  contentedly;  '  enjoyment 
ain't  the  end  of  life,  but  to  do  the  will  of  God  ;  and  he's 
doin'  it.  And  enjoyment  comes  that  way,  too  ;  ay,  ay  ! 
"  an  hundred  fold  now,  in  this  world,  and  in  the  world  to 
come  eternal  life."  I  hain't  ever  been  able  to  do  much, 
Diana  ;  but  it  has  been  sweet — his  service — all  along  the 


SUNSHINE.  361 

way  ;  and  now  I'm  goin'  where  it'll  be  nothin'  but  sweet- 
ness for  ever.' 

A  little  tired  perhaps  with  talking,  for  she  had  talked 
with  a  good  deal  of  energy,  the  old  lady  dozed  off  into  a 
nap;  and  Diana  sat  alone  with  the  summer  stillness  and 
thought  over  and  over  some  of  the  words  that  had  been 
said.  It  was  the  hush  of  the  summer  stillness,  and  also 
the  full  pulse  of  the  summer  life  that  she  felt  as  she  sat 
there  ;  not  soothing  to  inaction,  but  stirring  up  the  loving 
doing.  A  warm  breath  of  vital  energy,  an  odorous  wit- 
ness-bearing of  life  fruitfulness,  a  hum  and  a  murmur  of 
harmonious  forces  in  action,  a  depth  of  colour  in  the  light 
and  in  the  shadow,  which  told  of  the  richness  and  fullness 
of  the  natural  world.  Nothing  idle,  nothing  unfruitful,  no- 
thing out  of  harmony,  nothing  in  vain.  How  about  Diana 
Masters,  and  her  work  and  her  part  in  the  great  plan  ? 
Again  the  gentle  summer  air  which  stole  in,  laden  with 
such  scents  and  sweets,  rich  and  bountiful  out  of  the  infin- 
ite treasury,  spoke  of  love  at  the  heart  of  creation.  But 
there  were  cold  winds  too,  sometimes  ;  icy  storms  ;  desola- 
tions of  tempests  ;  they  had  been  here  not  long  ago.  True, 
but  yet  it  was  not  those,  but  this  which  carried  on  the  life 
of  the  world ;  this  was  the  '  Yes,'  and  those  others  the 
'  No '  of  creation ;  and  an  affirmative  is  stronger  than  a 
negative  any  day,  by  universal  acknowledgment.  More- 
over, that  '  No  '  was  in  order  to  this  '  Yes  ; '  gave  way  be- 
fore it,  yielded  to  it ;  and  life  reigned  in  spite  of  death. 
Vaguely  Diana's  mind  felt  and  carried  on  the  analogy  and 
the  reasoning  from  analogy,  and  drew  a  chill,  far-off  hope 
from  it.  For  it  was  the  time  of  storm  and  desolation  with 
her  now,  and  the  summer  sun  had  not  come  yet.  She  sat 
musing  while  the  old  lady  slumbered. 

'  Hullo,  Diany !  here  you  be  ! '  exclaimed  the  voice  of 


362  DIANA. 

Joe  Bartlett,  suddenly  breaking  in.  '  Here's  your  good 
man  outside,  waitin'  for  you,  I  guess  ;  his  horse  is  a  leetle 
skittish.  What  ails  your  mother  ? ' 

'  My  mother? ' 

'  Yes.  Josh  says — you  see,  I've  bin  down  to  mill  to  git 
some  rye  ground,  and  he  was  there  ;  and  what's  more,  he  had 
the  start  of  me,  and  I  had  to  wait  for  him,  or  I  wouldn't 
ha'  stood  there  chatterin'  while  the  sun  was  shinin'  like  it 
is  to-day  ;  that  ain't  my  way.  But  Josh  says  she's  goin' 
round  groanin'  at  sun'thin' — and  that  ain't  her  way  nother. 
Mind  you,  it  ain't  when  anybody's  by  ;  I  warrant  you,  she 
don't  give  no  sign  then  that  anythin's  botherin'  her ;  Josh 
says  it's  when  she's  alone.  I  didn't  ask  him  how  he  come 
to  know  so  much,  and  so  little  ;  but  I  wisht  I  had,'  Joe 
finished  his  speech  laughing. 

Diana  took  her  hat,  kissed  the  old  woman,  and  went  out 
to  her  husband  who  was  waiting  for  her.  And  some  miles 
of  the  drive  were  made  in  silence.  Then  as  the  old  brown 
house  came  in  sight,  with  the  weeping  elms  over  the  gate, 
Diana  asked  her  husband  to  stop  for  a  minute  or  two.  He 
reined  up  under  the  elm  trees  and  helped  Diana  out, 
letting  her,  however,  go  in  alone. 

Diana  was  not  often  here,  naturally  ;  between  her  and 
her  mother,  who  never  in  the  best  of  times  had  stood  near 
together  or  shared  each  other's  deeper  sympathies,  a  gulf 
had  opened.  Besides,  the  place  was  painful  to  Diana  on 
other  accounts.  It  was  full  of  memories  and  associations  ; 
she  always  seemed  to  herself  when  there  as  a  dead  person 
might  on  revisiting  the  place  where  once  he  had  lived  ;  she 
felt  dead  to  all  but  pain,  and  the  impression  came  back 
with  sharp  torture  that  once  she  used  to  be  alive.  So  as 
the  shadow  of  the  elm  branches  fell  over  her  now,  it  hurt 
her  inexpressibly.  She  was  alive  when  she  had  dwelt 


SUNSHINE.  363 

under  them  ;  yes,  she  and  Evan  too.  She  hurried  her  steps 
and  went  in  at  the  lean-to  door. 

It  was  now  long  past  mid-day.  The  noon  meal  was 
over,  apparently,  and  every  sign  of  it  cleared  away.  The 
kitchen  was  in  spotless  order ;  but  beside  the  table  sat 
Mrs.  Starling,  doing  nothing;  an  unheard-of  state  of  affairs. 
Diana  came  further  in. 

'  Mother ' — 

'  Well,  Diana/ — said  Mrs.  Starling  looking  up.  '  What's 
brought  you  now  ? ' 

'  I've  been  down  to  see  Mrs.  Bartlett — she  sent  for  me 
— and  I  thought  I  would  stop  in  as  I  went  by.  Mr.  Mas- 
ters is  outside.' 

'  Well,  I've  no  objection,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  ambigu- 
ously. 

'  How  do  you  do  ? ' 

'  Middling.' 

'  Is  all  getting  on  well  with  the  farm  and  the  dairy  ? ' 

'  I  don't  let  it  be  no  other  way.' 

Diana  saw  that  something  was  wrong,  but  knew  also 
that  if  she  were  to  find  it  out  it  would  be  by  indirect  ways. 

'  May  I  go  into  the  pantry  and  get  some  milk  ?  I've 
been  a  good  while  from  home,  and  I'm  hungry.' 

'  Go  along,'  said  her  mother  ungraciously.  '  I  should 
think  likely,  if  you  are  hungry,  your  baby  is  too.  That's  a 
new  way  of  doing  things.  'Twarn't  ever  my  way.  A  woman 
that's  got  a  baby,  ought  to  attend  to  it.  An'  if  she  don't, 
her  husband  ought  to  make  her.' 

'  I've  not  been  gone  so  long  as  all  that  comes  to,'  said 
Diana  ;  and  she  went  into  the  pantry,  her  old  domain.  The 
pans  of  milk  looked  friendly  at  her  ;  the  sweet  clean  smell 
of  cream  carried  her  back — it  seemed  ages — to  a  time  when 
she  was  as  sweet  and  clean.  '  Yet  it  is  not  my  fault ' — 


364  DIANA. 

she  said  to  herself, — '  it  is  tier's — all  her's.'  She  snatched 
a  piece  of  bread  and  a  glass  of  milk,  and  swallowed  it  has- 
tily. Then,  as  she  came  out  she  saw  that  one  of  her  mother's 
hands  lay  bandaged  up,  in  her  lap  under  the  table. 

'Mother, — what's  the  matter  with. your  hand  ? ' 

'  O  not  much.' 

'But  what  ?     It's  all  tied  up.     Have  you  burned  it  ? ' 

'No.' 

'  What  then  ?     Cut  yourself  ? ' 

'  I  should  like  to  know  how  I  should  go  to  work  to  cut 
my  right  hand  !  Don't  make  a  fuss  about  nothing,  Diana. 
It's  only  scalded.' 

'  Scalded  !     How  ? ' 

'  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  that,  to  the  end  of  my  days,' 
said  Mrs.  Starling.  'If  pots  and  kettles  and  that  could  be 
possessed,  I  should  know  what  to  think.  I  was  makin* 
strawberry  preserve — and  the  kettle  was  a  'most  full,  and 
it  was  first  rate  preserve,  and  boiling  and  almost  done, 
and  I  had  just  set  it  down  on  the  hearth  ;  and  then,  I  don't 
know  how  to  this  day,  I  stumbled  —  I  don't  know  over 
what — and  my  arm  soused  right  in.' 

'  Boiling  sweetmeat ! '  cried  Diana.  '  Mother,  let  me 
see.  It  must  be  dreadfully  burned.' 

'  It's  all  done  up,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  coldly.  '  I  was 
real  put  out  about  my  preserves.' 

'  Have  you  had  dinner  ? ' 

'  I  never  found  I  could  live  'thout  eating.' 

'  Who  got  dinner  for  you,  and  cleared  away  ? ' 

'  Nobody.     I  did  it  myself.' 

'  For  the  men  and  all ! ' 

'  Well  they  don't  count  to  live  without  eatin',  no  mor'n 
I  do,'  said  Mrs.  Starling  with  a  short  laugh. 

'  And  you  did  it  with  one  hand  ! ' 


SUNSHINE.  365 

'  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  stop  in  anything  I  had  to 
do,  for  want  of  a  hand  ? '  said  Mrs.  Starling  scornfully. 

No,  thought  Diana  to  herself  ;  nor  for  want  of  anything 
else,  even  though  it  were  right  or  conscience.  Aloud  she 
only  said, 

'  I  must  go  home  to  baby—' 

'  You  had  better,  I  should  think/  her  mother  broke  in. 

'  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  first  ? ' 

'  You  can  see  for  yourself,  there  is  nothing  to  do.' 

'  Shall  I  come  back  and  stay  with  you  to-night  ? ' 

'  You  had  better  ask  the  Dominie. 

1  Mother,  he  never  wants  me  to  do  anything  but  jus<! 
what  is  right,'  Diana  said  seriously.  Mrs.  Starling  lifted  up 
her  head  and  gave  a  curious  searching  look  into  her  daugh- 
ter's face.  What  was  she  trying  to  find  ? 

'  That's  one  turtle  dove,'  she  said.  And  are  you  an- 
other, and  always  bob  your  head  when  he  bobs  his'n  ? ' 

Diana  wondered  at  this  speech  ;  it  seemed  to  her  her 
mother  was  losing  ground  even  in  the  matter  of  language. 
No  thought  of  irritation  crossed  her  ;  she  was  beyond  trifles 
now.  She  made  no  answer;  she  merely  bade  her  mother 
good-bye,  and  hurried  out.  And  for  a  long  while  the  drive 
was  again  in  silence.  Then,  when  the  grey  horse  was 
walking  up  a  hill,  Diana  spoke  in  a  meditative  sort  of  way. 

'  Basil — you  said  enjoyment  was  not  the  end  of  life — ' 

'  Did  I  ? '  he  answered  gravely. 

'  If  you  didn't,  it  was  Mother  Bartlett.  You  do  say  so 
I  suppose  ? ' 

'  Yes.     It  is  not  the  end  of  life.' 

'  What  is  then  ? ' 

'  To  do  the  will  of  God.  And  by  and  by,  if  not  sooner, 
enjoyment  comes  that  way  too,  Diana.  And  when  it  comes 
that  way,  it  stays  ;  and  lasts.' 


366  DIANA. 

'  How  long  ? ' 

'  For  ever  and  ever  ! ' 

Diana  waited  a  few  minutes  and  then  spoke  again. 

'  Basil — I  want  to  consult  you.' 

'  Well,  do  it' 

'  Ought  I  to  leave  my  mother  to  live  alone,  as  she  is  ? 
.She  is  not  young  now.' 

'  What  would  you  do  ? ' 

'  If  I  knew,  Basil,  I  would  like  it  to  do  what  I  ought  to 
do.' 

'  Would  you  take  her  to  live  with  you  ? ' 

'  If  you  would  ? — and  she  would.' 

Basil  put  his  arm  round  his  wife  and  bent  down  and 
kissed  her.  He  would  not  have  done  it  if  he  could  have 
guessed  how  she  shrank. 

'  If  you  will  take  life  on  those  terms,'  he  said,  '  then  it 
will  be  true  for  you,  that  "  Sorrow  may  endure  for  a  night, 
but  joy  cometh  in  the  morning."  ' 

It  will  be  the  morning  of  the  resurrection,  then,  thought 
Diana  ;  but  she  only  replied, 

'  What  "  terms,"  Basil,  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  Doing  the  Lord's  will.  His  will  is  always  good,  Diana, 
and  brings  sweet  fruit ;  only  you  must  wait  till  the  fruit  is 
ripe,  nay  child.' 

'  Then  what  about  mother  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  believe  she  would  come  to  us.' 

'  Nor  I.     Suppose  she  would  let  us  come  to  her? ' 

'  Then  I  would,  go, — if  you  wished  it.' 

'  I  don't  wish  it,  Basil.  I  was  thinking,  if  I  could  bear 
it  ?  But  the  thought  will  not  out  of  my  head,  that  she  ought 
not  to  be  alone.' 

'  Then  do  what  is  in  thine  heart,'  the  minister  said  cheer- 
fully.' 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A   JUNE    DAY. 

MRS.  STARLING  hesitated,  when  Diana  proposed  her 
plan  ;  she  would  think  of  it,  she  said.  But  when  she  began  to 
think  of  it,  the  attractions  were  found  irresisible.  To  have 
her  grandchild  in  the  house  beside  her,  perhaps  with  a  vague 
thought  of  making  up  to  her  daughter  in  some  unexplained 
way  for  the  wrong  she  had  done  ;  at  any  rate,  to  have  voices 
and  life  in  the  house  again,  instead  of  the  bare  silence ; 
voices  of  people  that  belonged  to  her  own  blood;  Mrs. 
Starling  found  that  she  could  not  give  up  the  idea,  once  it 
got  into  her  head.  Then  she  objected  that  the  house  was 
too  small. 

The  minister  said  he  would  put  up  an  addition  of  a 
couple  of  rooms  for  himself  and  Diana,  and  Diana's  old 
room  could  serve  as  a  nursery. 

Who  wants  a  nursery  ?  Mrs.  Starling  demanded.  Her 
idea  of  a  nursery,  was  the  whole  house  and  all  out  of  doors. 
The  minister  laughed  and  said  that  was  not  his  idea  ;  and 
Mrs.  Starling  was  fain  to  let  it  pass.  She  was  human, 
though  she  was  not  a  good  woman  ;  and  Diana's  proposal 
to  come  back  to  her  had,  though  she  would  never  allow  it 
even  to  herself,  touched  both  her  heart  and  her  conscience. 
Somewhere  very  deep  down  and  out  of  sight,  nevertheless 
it  was  true  ;  and  it  was  true  that  she  had  been  very  lonely ; 
and  she  let  the  minister  have  his  own  way,  undisputed, 
about  the  building. 

367 


368  DIANA. 

The  carpenters  were  set  to  work  at  once,  and  at  home 
Diana  quietly  made  preparations  for  a  removal  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months.  She  buried  herself  in  business  as 
much  as  ever  she  could,  to  still  thought  and  keep  her  nerves 
quiet;  for  constantly,  daily  and  nightly  now,  the  image  of 
Evan  was  before  her,  and  the  possibility  that  he  might  any 
day  present  himself  in  very  flesh  and  blood.  No  precau- 
tions were  of  any  avail ;  if  he  chose  to  seek  her  out,  Diana 
could  not  escape  him  unless  by  leaving  Pleasant  Valley  ; 
and  that  was  not  possible.  Would  he  come  ?  She  looked 
at  that  question  from  every  possible  point  of  the  compass, 
and  from  every  one  the  view  that  presented  itself  was  that 
he  would  come.  Nay,  he  ought  not ;  it  would  be  worse 
than  of  no  use  for  them  to  see  each  other ;  and  yet,  some- 
thing in  Diana's  recollections  of  him,  or,  it  might  be,  some- 
thing in  the  consciousness  of  her  own  nature,  made  her  say 
to  herself  that  he  would  come.  How  should  she  bear  it  ? 
She  almost  wished  that  Basil  would  forbid  it  and  take 
measures  to  make  it  impossible  ;  but  the  minister  went  his 
way  unmoved  and  quiet  as  usual ;  there  was  neither  fear 
nor  doubt  on  his  broad  fair  brow.  Diana  respected  him 
immensely  ;  and  at  times  felt  a  great  pang  of  grief  that  his 
face  should  wear  such  a  shade  of  gravity  as  was  habitual 
to  it  now.  Knowing  him  so  well  as  she  did  by  this  time,  she 
could  guess  that  though  the  gravity  never  degenerated  into 
gloom,  the  reason  was  to  be  found  solely  and  alone  in  the 
fact  that  Basil's  inner  life  was  fed  by  springs  which  were 
beyond  the  reach  of  earthly  impoverishing  or  disturbing. 
How  much  better  she  thought  him  than  herself ! — as  she 
looked  at  the  calm,  steadfast  beauty  of  his  countenance, 
which  matched  his  daily  life  and  walk.  No  private  sorrow 
touched  that.  Never  thinking  of  himself  nor  seeking  his 
own,  he  was  busy  from  morning  till  night  with  the  needs  of 


A   JUNE    DAY.  369 

others  ;  going  from  house  to  house,  carrying  help,  shewing 
light,  bringing  comfort,  guiding  into  the  way,  pointing  out 
the  wrong ;  and  at  home, — Diana  knew  with  what  glad  re- 
sort he  went  to  his  Bible  and  prayer  for  his  own  help  and 
wisdom,  and  wrought  out  the  lessons  that  were  to  be  given 
openly  in  the  little  hillside  church.  Diana  knew  too  what 
flowers  of  blessings  were  springing  up  along  hjs  path ; 
what  fruits  of  good.  The  "  angel  of  the  church  "  in  Pleas- 
ant Valley  he  was,  in  a  sense  most  true  and  lovely,  although 
that  be  not  the  original  bearing  of  the  phrase  in  the  Reve- 
lation, where  Alford  thinks  and  I  think,  no  human  angels 
are  intended.  Nevertheless,  that  was  Basil  here  ;  and  his 
wife,  who  did  not  love  him,  honoured  him  to  the  bottom  of 
her  heart. 

And  in  her  self-reproach  and  her  humility,  Diana  wrote 
bitterer  things  against  herself  than  there  was  any  need. 
For  she  too  was  doing  her  daily  work  with  a  lovely  truth 
of  aim  and  simpleness  of  purpose.  With  all  the  joys  of  life 
crushed  out,  she  was  walking  the  way  which  had  become  so 
weary  with  a  steady  foot  and  with  hands  ready  and  diligent 
to  do  all  they  found  to  do.  In  another  sort  from  her  hus- 
band, the  fair,  calm,  grave  woman  was  the  angel  of  her 
household.  I  can  never  tell  you  how  beautiful  Diana  was 
now.  If  the  careless  light  glance  of  the  girl  wa§  gone, 
there  was  now,  instead,  the  deeper  beauty  of  a  nature  that 
has  loved  and  suffered  ;  that  ripening  process  of  humanity, 
without  which  it  never  comes  to  its  full  bloom  and  fruitage  ; 
though  that  be  a  very  material  image  for  the  matter  in 
hand.  And  there  was  besides  in  Diana  the  dignity  of 
bearing  of  one  who  is  lifted  above  all  small  considerations 
of  every  kind ;  that  is,  not  above  small  duties,  but  above 
petty  interests.  Therefore  in  this  woman,  who  had  never 
seen  and  scarcely  imagined  courts,  even  in  the  minister's 
24 


3/O  DIANA. 

house  in  Pleasant  Valley,  there  was  the  calm  poise  and 
grace  which  we  associate  in  our  speech  and  thoughts  with  the 
highest  advantages  of  social  relations.  So  extremes  some- 
times meet.  In  Diana  it  was  due  to  her  inborn  nobility  of 
nature  and  the  sharp  discipline  of  sorrow  ;  in  aid  of  which 
practically  came  also  her  perfection  of  physical  health  and 
form.  It  must  be  remembered  too,  that  she  had  been  now 
for  a  good  while  in  the  close  companionship  of  a  man  of 
great  refinement  and  culture,  and  that  both  study  and  con- 
versation had  lifted  her  by  this  time  far  out  of  the  intel- 
lectual sphere  in  which  the  beginning  of  our  story  found 
her. 

The  carpenters  were  going  on  vigorously  with  their 
work  on  the  new  rooms  adding  to  Mrs.  Starling's  house  ; 
and  Diana  was  making,  as  she  could  from  time  to  time,  her 
little  preparations  for  the  removal,  which  however  could  not 
take  place  yet  for  some  time.  It  was  in  the  beginning  of 
July.  Diana  was  up  stairs  one  day,  looking  over  the  con- 
tents of  a  trunk  and  cutting  up  pieces  for  patchwork.  Win- 
dows were  open,  of  course,  and  the  scent  of  new  hay  came 
in  with  the  warm  air.  Hay-making  was  going  on  all  over 
Pleasant  Valley.  By  and  by  Miss  Collins  put  her  head  in. 

'  Be  you  fixed  to  see  folks  ? ' 

'  Who  wants  me  ? ' 

'Well,  there's  somebody  comin';  and  I  reckon  its  one 
or  other  o'  them  fly-aways  -from  Elmfield.' 

'  Here  ? '  said  Diana  starting  up  and  trembling. 

'  Wall,  there's  one  of  'em  comin '  I  guess — I  see  the 
carriage — and  I  thought  maybe  you  warn't  ready  to  see  no 
one.  When  one  gets  into  a  trunk  it's  hard  to  get  out  again. 
So  I  thought  I'd  jes'  come  and  tell  ye.  There,  she  is 
comin'  up  the  walk.  Hurry,  now.' 

Down  went  Miss  Collins  to  let  the  visiter  in,  and  Diana 


A   JUNE    DAY.  371 

did  hurry  and  changed  her  dress.  What  can  she  be  coma 
for  ?  she  questioned  with  herself  meanwhile  ;  for  it  was 
Mrs.  Reverdy,  she  had  seen.  No  good  !  no  good  !  But 
nobody  would  have  guessed  that  Diana  had  ever  been  in 
a  hurry,  that  saw  her  entrance  the  next  minute  upon  her 
visiter.  That  little  lady  felt  a  sort  of  imposing  effect,  and 
did  not  quite  know  how  to  do  what  she  had  come  for. 

'  I  always  think  there  has  come  some  witchery  over  my 
eyes,'  she  said  with  her  invariable  little  laugh  of  ingratia- 
tion,  'when  I  see  you.  I  always  feel  a  kind  of  new 
surprise.  Is  it  the  minister  that  has  changed  you  so  ? 
What's  he  done  ? ' 

'  Changed  me  ? '  Diana  repeated. 

'  Why  yes  ;  you  are  changed.  You  are  not  like  what 
you  were  two  years  ago — three  years  ago — how  long  is  it. 

'  It  is  three  years  ago,'  said  Diana  trying  to  smile.  '  I 
am  three  years  older.' 

'  O  it  isn't  that.  /';;/  three  years  older.  I  suppose  I 
didn't  see  enough  of  you  then  to  find  you  out.  It  was  my 
fault.  But  if  you  had  married  somebody  belonging  to  me, 
I  can  tell  you,  I  should  have  been  very  proud  of  my  sister- 
in-law.' 

She  laughed  at  the  compliment  she  was  making,  laugh- 
ed lightly  ;  while  Diana  inwardly  shook,  like  a  person  who 
has  received  a  sudden  sharp  blow  and  staggers  in  danger 
of  losing  his  footing.  Did  she  waver  visibly  before  her  ad- 
versary's eyes,  she  wondered  ?  She  was  sure  her  colour 
did  not  change.  She  found  nothing  to  say,  in  any  case ;  and 
after  a  moment  her  vision  cleared  and  she  had  possession 
of  herself  again. 

'  I  am  saucy,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  smiling,  '  but  nobody 
thinks  of  minding  anything  I  say.  That's  the  good  of  be- 
ing little  and  insignificant,  as  I  am.' 


3/2  DIANA. 

Diana  was  inclined  to  wish  her  visiter  would  not  pre- 
sume upon  her  harmlessness. 

'  I  should  as  soon  think  of  being  rude  to  a  duchess,' 
Mrs.  Revercly  went  on.  '  Or  to  a  princess.  I  don't  see  how 
Evan  ever  made  up  his  mind  to  go  away  and  leave  you.' 

'  Is  it  worse  to  be  rude  to  a  duchess  than  to  other  peo- 
ple ? '  Diana  asked,  seizing  the  first  part  of  this  speech  as 
a  means  to  get  over  the  last. 

'  I  never  tried,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy ;  '  I  never  had  the 
opportunity,  you  know.  I  might  have  danced  with  the 
Prince  of  Wales  perhaps  when  he  was  here.  I  know  a 
lady  who  did.  and  she  said  she  wasn't  afraid  of  him.  If 
you  had  been  there,  I  am  sure  she  would  not  have  got  the 
chance.' 

'  You  forget,  I  am  not  a  dancer.' 

'  O  not  now,  of  course — but  then  you  wouldn't  have 
been  a  minister's  wife.' 

'  Why  should  not  a  minister's  wife  dance  as  well  as 
other  people  ?  ' 

'  O,  I  don't  know ! '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  lightly ;  '  but 
they  never  do,  you  know.  They  are  obliged  to  set  an  ex- 
ample.' 

<  Of  what  ? ' 

'  Of  everything  that  is  proper,  I  suppose.  Don't  you 
feel  that  everybody's  eyes  are  upon  you,  always,  watching 
everything  you  do  ? ' 

A  good  reminder !  But  Diana  answered  simply  that 
she  never  thought  about  it. 

'  Don't  you  !  Isn't  the  minister  always  reminding  you 
of  what  people  will  think  ? ' 

'  No.     It  isn't  his  way.' 

'  Doesn't  he  ?  Why,  without  being  a  minister,  that  is 
what  my  husband  used  always  to  be  doing  to  me.  I  was 


A  JUNE   DAY.  3/3 

a  little  giddy,  you  know,'  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  laughing  ;  '  I 
was  very  young ;  and  I  used  to  have  plenty  of  admoni- 
tions.' 

'  I  believe  Mr.  Masters  thinks  we  should  only  care 
about  God's  eyes,'  Diana  said  quietly. 

Mrs.  Reverdy  startled  a  little  at  that,  and  for  a  moment 
looked  grave.  From  Diana  she  had  not  expected  this 
turn. 

'  I  never  think  about  anything  ! '  she  said  then  with  a 
laugh,  that  looked  as  if  it  were  meant  to  be  one  of  childlike, 
ingenuousness.  '  Don't  think  me  very  bad.  Everybody 
can't  be  good  and  discreet  like  you  and  Mr.  Masters.' 

'  Very  few  people  are  like  Mr.  Masters,'  Diana  as- 
sented. 

'  We  all  know  that.  And  in  the  daily  beholding  of  his 
superiority,  have  you  quite  forgotten  everything  else?— 
your  old  lover  and  all  ? ' 

'Whom  do  you  mean  ? '  Diana  asked,  with  a  calm  cold- 
ness at  which  she  wondered  herself. 

'  I  mean  Evan,  to  be  sure.  You  know  he  was  your  old 
lover.  He  wants  to  see  you.  He  has  not  forgotten  you, 
at  any  rate.  Have  you  entirely  forgotten  him  ?  Poor  fel- 
low !  he  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it.' 

'  I  have  not  forgotten  Mr.  Knowlton  at  all,'  Diana  said 
with  difficulty,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  throat  was 
suddenly  paralyzed. 

'  You  have  not  forgotten  him  ?  I  may  tell  him  that  ? 
Do  you  know,  he  raves  about  you. — I  wish  you  could  hear 
him  once.  He  is  Captain  Knowlton  now,  you  must  under- 
stand ;  he  has  got  his  advancement  early;  but  one  or  two 
people  died  and  somebody  else  was  removed  out  of  his 
way ;  and  so  he  stepped  into  his  captaincy.  Lucky  fel- 
low !  he  always  has  been  lucky ;  except  just  in  one  thing ; 


374  DIANA. 

and  he  thinks  that  spoils  all.  May  he  come  and  see  you, 
Diana  ?  He  has  given  me  no  peace  until  I  would  come 
and  ask  you  ;  and  he  will  never  have  any  peace,  that  I  can 
see,  if  you  refuse  him.  Poor  fellow  !  there  he  is  out  there 
all  this  time,  champing  the  bit  worse  than  the  horses.' 

And  the  woman  said  it  all,  with  her  little  civil  smile 
and  laugh,  as  if  she  were  talking  about  sugar  plums  ! 

'  Is  he  here?'  cried  Diana. 

'  With  the  horses — waiting  to  know  the  success  of  my 
mission  ;  and  I  have  been  afraid  to  ask  you,  for  fear  you 
should  say  no ;  and  I  cannot  carry  back  such  an  answer  to 
him.  May  I  tell  him  to  come  in  ? ' 

'  Why  should  not  he  come  to  see  me,  as  well  as  any 
other  friend  ? '  said  Diana.  But  the  quiver  in  her  voice 
gave  the  answer  to  her  own  question. 

'  Of  course  ! '  said  Mrs.  Reverdy  rising  with  a  satisfied 
face.  '  There  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he  should  not, 
if  you  have  kindness  enough  left  for  him  to  let  him  come. 
Then  I'll  go  out  and  tell  him  to  come  in  ;  for  the  poor  fel- 
low is  sitting  on  sword's  points  all  this  while.'  And  laugh- 
ing at  her  supposed  happy  professional  allusion,  the  lady 
withdrew. 

Diana  flew  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room.  She  did 
not  debate  much  the  question  whether  she  ought  to  see 
Evan ;  it  came  to  her  rather  as  a  thing  that  she  must  do  ; 
there  was  no  question  in  the  case.  However,  perhaps  the 
question  only  lay  very  deep  down  in  her  consciousness,  for 
the  justification  presented  itself,  that  to  refuse  to  see  him, 
would  be  to  confess  both  to  his  sister  and  himself  that  there 
was  danger  in  it.  Diana  never  could  confess  that,  what- 
ever the  fact.  So  answering  dumbly  the  doubt  that  was 
as  wordless,  without  stopping  a  moment  she  caught  up  her 
sleeping  baby  out  of  its  cradle,  and  drawing  the  cradle  af- 


A  JUNE   DAY.  375 

ter  her  went  into  her  husband's  study.  Basil  was  there, 
she  knew,  at  work.  He  looked  up  as  she  came  in.  Diana 
drew  the  cradle  near  to  him,  and  carefully  laid  the  still 
sleeping,  fair  and  fat  little  bundle  from  her  arms  down  in 
it  again  j  this  was  done  gently  and  deliberately  enough  ; 
no  hurry  and  no  perturbation.  Then  she  stood  upright. 

'  Basil,  will  you  take  care  of  her  ?     He  is  come.' 

The  minister  looked  up  into  his  wife's  face  ;  he  knew 
what  she  meant.  And  he  felt  as  he  looked  at  her,  how  far 
she  was  from  him.  There  was  no  smile  on  Diana's  lips 
indeed  ;  on  the  contrary  an  intensity  of  feelings  that  were 
not  pleasurable  ;  and  yet,  and  yet — he  who  has  looked  for 
the  light  of  love  in  an  eye  and  missed  it  long,  knows  it 
when  he  sees  it,  even  though  it  be  not  for  him.  The  four 
eyes  met  each  other  steadily. 
'  '  Shall  I  see  him  ? '  Diana  asked. 

Basil  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her.  '  I  can  trust  you, 
Diana.' 

She  put  her  cold  hand  in  his  for  a  minute  and  hurried 
away.  Then,  as  she  reached  the  other  room,  she  heard  in 
the  hall  below  a  step,  the  step  she  had  not  heard  for  years  ; 
and  her  heart  made  one  spring  back  over  the  interval.  In 
the  urgency  of  action,  Diana's  colour  had  hardly  changed 
until  now ;  now  she  turned  deadly  white,  and  for  one  in- 
stant sank  on  her  knees  by  her  bedside  with  her  heart  full 
of  a  mute  unformed  prayer  for  help.  It  was  fearful  to  go  on, 
but  she  must  go  on  now ;  she  must  see  Evan  ;  he  was  there  ; 
questions  were  done  ;  and  as  she  went  down  stairs,  while 
her  face  was  white,  and  pain  almost  confused  her  senses, 
there  was  a  stir  of  keen  joy  at  her  heart ;  fierce,  like 
that  of  a  wild  beast  which  has  been  robbed  of  its  prey  but 
has  got  it  again.  She  tried  for  self-command,  and  as  one 
mean  towards  it  forced  herself  to  go  deliberately.  No  hasty 


376  DIANA. 

steps  should  be  heard  on  the  stairs  or  in  the  floor.  Even 
so,  the  way  was  short ;  a  moment,  and  she  had  entered 
the  room,  and  she  and  Evan  were  face  to  face  once  more. 

Face  to  face,  and  yet,  neither  dared  look  at  the  other. 
He  was  standing,  waiting  for  her ;  she  came  a  few  paces 
into  the  room  and  stood  still  opposite  him  ;  they  did  not 
touch  each  other's  hands  ;  they  made  no  show  of  greeting. 
How  should  they  ?  in  each  other's  presence  indeed  they 
were,  with  but  a  small  space  of  transparent  air  between,  to 
the  sense  ;  and  yet,  a  barrier  mountains  high,  of  impassible 
ice,  to  the  mind's  apprehension.  You  could  have  heard  a 
pin  drop  in  the  room  ;  the  two  stood  there,  a  few  yards 
apart,  not  even  looking  at  each  other,  yet  intensely  con- 
scious each  all  the  while  of  the  familiar  outlines  and  traits 
so  long  unseen,  so  well  known  by  heart.  Breathing  the  air 
of  the  same  room  again,  and  nevertheless  miles  and  miles 
apart ;  that  was  what  they  were  feeling.  The  miles  could 
not  be  bridged  over  ;  what  use  to  tiy  to  bridge  over  the 
yards.  Diana  was  growing  whiter,  if  whiter  could  be ; 
Evan's  head  sank  lower.  At  last  the  man  succumbed ;  sat 
down  ;  buried  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  groaned  aloud. 
Diana  stood  like  a  statue,  but  looking  at  him  now. 

What  is  it  in  little  things  which  has  such  power  over 
us  ?  As  Diana  stood  there  looking,  it  was  little  things 
which  stabbed  her  as  if  each  were  a  sharp  sword.  The  set 
of  Evan's  shoulders,  the  waves  of  his  hair,  the  very  gold 
shoulder  straps  on  the  well  remembered  blue  uniform  un- 
dress ;  his  cap  which  lay  on  her  table,  with  its  service  sym- 
bols. Is  it  that  the  sameness  of  these  material  trifles  seems 
to  assert  that  nothing  is  changed,  and  so  makes  the  change 
more  incredible  and  dreadful  ?  I  cannot  describe  the 
woeful  pain  which  the  sight  of  these  things  gave  Diana. 
With  them  came  the  fresh  remembrance  of  all  the  manly 


A  JUNE    DAY.  377 

beauty  and  grace  of  Evan  in  which  she  had  once  sunned 
herself,  and  the  contrast  of  her  husband.  Not  that  Basil's 
personal  appearance  was  ever  to  be  despised,  any  more 
than  himself  ;  his  figure 'was  good  and  his  face  had  a  beauty 
of  its  own,  possibly  a  higher  kind  of  beauty  ;  but  it  was  not 
the  type  of  a  hero  of  romance  ;  and  Evan's,  to  Diana's  fancy, 
•was ;  and  it  had  been  her  romance.  She  stood  still,  motion- 
less, breathless.  If  anybody  spoke,  it  must  be  he.  But  at 
last  she  trembled  too  much  to  stand,  and  she  sat  down  too. 

'  How  has  it  happened,  Diana  ? '  Evan  asked  without 
looking  up. 

'  I  don't  know — '  she  said  just  above  her  breath. 

'  How  could  you  do  so  ? ' 

Well,  it  suited  him  well  to  reproach  her !  What  matter  ? 
Things  could  not  be  more  bitter  than  they  were.  She  did 
not  try  to  answer. 

'  You  have  ruined  both  our  lives.  Mine  is  ruined  ;  I 
am  ruined.  I  shall  never  be  worth  anything  now.  I  don't 
care  what  becomes  of  me.' 

As  she  still  did  not  answer,  he  looked  up,  and  their  eyes 
met.  Once  meeting,  they  could  not  quit  each  other. 
Diana's  gaze  was  sad  enough,  but  eager  with  the  eagerness 
of  long  hunger.  His  was  sharp  with  pain  at  first,  keen 
with  unreasonable  anger  ;  one  of  the  mind's  resorts  from 
unbearable  torment.  Then  as  he  looked  it  changed  and 
grew  soft ;  and  finally,  springing  up,  he  went  over  to  where 
she  sat,  dropped  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  seizing  her 
hands  kissed  them  one  after  the  other  till  tears  began  to 
mingle  with  the  kisses.  She  was  passive  ;  she  could  not 
drive  him  off ;  she  felt  that  she  and  he  must  have  this  one 
moment  to  bury  their  past  in  ;  it  was  only  when  her  hands 
were  growing  wet  with  his  tears  that  she  roused  herself  to 
an  effort. 


3/8  DIANA. 

'  Evan — Evan — listen  to  me  I  You  mustn't — remember, 
I  am  a  man's  wife.' 

'  How  could  you  ? ' 
*    1 1  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.' 

'  Have  you  given  up  loving  me  ? ' 

'  What  is  the  use  of  talking  of  it,  Evan  ?  I  am  another 
man's  wife.' 

'  But  there  are  such  things  as  divorces.' 

'  Hush  !     Do  not  speak  of  such  a  thing.' 

'  I  must  speak  of  it.  Whom  do  you  love  ?  tell  me  that  first.' 

'  No  one  has  a  right  to  ask  me  such  a  question.' 

'  I  have  a  right,'  cried  the  young  man  ;  'for  I  have  been 
deceived,  cheated,  robbed  of  my  own  ;  and  I  have  a  right 
to  get  back  my  own.  Diana,  speak!  do  you  love  me  less 
than  you  used  to  do  ?  Tell  me  that.' 

'  I  do  not  change,  Evan.' 

'  Then  you  have  no  business  to  be  anybody's  wife  but 
mine.  Nothing  can  hinder  f/iaf,  Diana.' 

'  Stop.     You  are  not  to  speak  so.     I  will  not  hear  it.' 

'You  are  mine,  Diana.' 

'  I  was  yours,  Evan  ! '  she  said  tenderly,  bending  her 
head  over  him  till  her  lips  touched  his  hair.  'We  have 
been  parted,  and  it  is  over — over  for  this  world.  You 
must  go  your  way,  and  I  must  go  mine.  And  you  must 
not  say,  I  am  ruined.' 

'  Do  not  you  say  it  ? ' 

'  I  must  not.' 

'  It  is  the  truth  for  me,  if  I  do  not  have  you  with  me.' 

'  It  is  not  the  truth,'  she  said  with  infinite  tenderness  in 
her  manner.  '  Not  ruined,  Evan.  We  can  go  our  way  and 
do  our  work,  even  if  we  are  not  happy.  That  is  another 
thing.' 

'  Then  you  are  not  happy  ? '  he  said  eagerly. 


A  JUNE   DAY.  3/9 

Diana  did  not  reply. 

1  Why  should  we  not  be  happy  ? '  he  went  on  passion- 
ately, looking  up  now  into  her  face.  '  You  are  mine,  Diana 
— you  belonged  to  rue  first,  you  have  been  mine  all  along; 
only  I  have  been  robbed  of  you  ; — pure  robbery ;  nothing 
else.  And  has  not  a  man  a  right  to  his  own,  wherever  and 
and  whenever  he  finds  it  ?  You  had  given  yourself  first  to 
me.  That  is  irrevocable.' 

'  No — '  she  said  with  the  same  gentleness,  in  every  tone 
of  which  lurked  an  unutterable  sorrow ;  it  would  have 
broken  her  husband's  heart  to  hear  her  ;  and  yet  she  was 
quiet,  so  quiet  that  she  awed  the  young  officer  a  little. 
'  No — I  had  promised  to  give  myself  to  you  ;  that  is  all.' 

'  You  gave  me  your  heart,  Di  ? ' 

She  was  silent,  for  at  the  moment  she  could  not  speak 

'  Di ! — '  he  insisted. 

'  Yes—' 

'  That  is  enough.     That  is  all.' 

'  It  is  not  all.     Since  then  I  have — ' 

'  How  could  you  do  it,  Diana  ?  how  could  you  do  it, 
after  your  heart  was  mine  ?  while  your  heart  was  mine  ! ' 

'  I  was  dead,'  she  said  in  the  same  low,  slow,  impres- 
sive way.  '  I  thought  I  was  dead, — and  that  it  did  not 
matter  any  more  what  I  did,  one  way  or  another.  I  thought 
I  was  dead  ;  and  when  I  found  out  that  there  was  life  in  me 
yet,  it  was  too  late.'  A  slight  shudder  ran  over  her  shoul- 
ders, which  Evan  however  did  not  see. 

'  And  you  doubted  me  ! '  said  he. 

'  I  heard  nothing — ' 

'  Of  course  ! — and  that  was  enough  to  make  you  think  I 
was  nothing  but  a  featherhead  ! — ' 

'  I  thought  I  was  not  good  enough  for  you,'  she  said 
softly. 


,.. 


380  DIANA. 

'  Not  good  enough  ! '  cried  Evan.  '  When  you  are  just 
a  pear]  of  perfection — a  diamond  of  loveliness — more  than 
all  I  knew  you  would  be — like  a  queen  rather  than  like  a 
common  mortal.  And  I  could  have  given  you  a  place  fit 
for  you  ;  and  here  you  are — ' 

'  Hush  ! '  she  said  softly,  but  it  stopped  him. 

'  Why  did  you  never  hear  from  me  ?  I  wrote,  and  wrote, 
and  oh  Diana,  hew  I  looked  for  something  from  you  !  I 
walked  miles  on  the  way  to  meet  the  wagon  that  brought 
our  mails  ;  I  could  hardly  do  my  duty,  or  eat,  or  sleep,  at 
last.  I  would  ride  then  to  meet  the  post  carrier,  though  it 
did  not  help  me,  for  I  could  not  open  the  bags  till  they 
were  brought  into  the  post ;  and  then  I  used  to  go  and 
gallop  thirty  miles  to  ride  away  from  myself.  Why  did 
you  never  write  one  word  ? ' 

'  I  did  not  know  your  address,'  she  said  faintly. 

'  I  gave  it  you,  over  and  over.' 

'  You  forget, — I  never  got  the  letters.' 

'  What  became  of  them  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'  What  was  her  motive  ? ' 

'  I  suppose — I  don't  know.' 

'  What  do  you  suppose  ? ' 

*  What  is  the  use  of  talking  about  it,  Evan  ? ' 

'  My  poor  darling ! '  said  he  looking  up  in  her  face 
again — '  it  has  been  hard  on  you  too.  Oh  Di,  my  Di !  I 
cannot  lose  you !  — ' 

He  was  still  kneeling  before  her,  and  she  put  her  two 
hands  on  his  head,  smoothing  or  rather  pushing  back 
the  short  locks  from  his  temples  on  either  side,  looking  as 
one  looks  one's  last  on  what  one  loves.  Her  eyes  were 
dry,  and  large  with  pain  which  did  not  allow  the  eyelids 
their  usual  droop  ;  her  mouth  was  in  the  saddest  lines  a 
woman's  lips  can  take,  but  they  did  not  tremble. 


A   JUNE    DAY.  381 

'  Hush,'  she  said  again  softly.  '  I  am  lost  to  you. 
That  is  over.  Now  go  and  do  a  man's  work  in  the  world, 
and  if  I  hear  of  you,  let  me  hear  good.' 

'  Haven't  you  got  one  kiss  for  me  ? ' 

She  bent  lower  down,  and  kissed  his  brow.  She  kissed 
it  twice  ;  but  the  manner  of  the  woman  was  of  such  high 
and  pure  dignity  that  the  young  officer,  who  would  else 
have  had  no  scruple,  did  not  dare  presume  upon  it.  He 
took  no  more  than  she  gave  ;  bent  his  head  again  when 
she  took  her  hands  away  and  covered  his  face,  as  at  first. 
They  were  both  still  awhile. 

'  Evan — you  must  go,'  she  whispered. 

'  Whe"n  may  I  come  again  ? ' 

She  did  not  answer. 

'  I  am  coming  very  soon  again,  Di.  I  must  see  you 
often — I  must  see  you  very  often,  while  I  am  here.  I  can- 
not live  if  I  do  not  see  you.  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  live 
any  way  ! ' 

'  Don't  speak  so.' 

'  How  do  you  expect  to  bear  it  ? '  he  asked  jealously. 

'  I  don't  know.     We  shall  find,  as  the  days  come.' 

'  Life  looks  so  long  ! ' — 

'  Yes.     But  we  have  got  something  to  do  in  it.' 

'  I  have  not.     Not  now.' 

'  Every  one  has.  And  a  brave  man,  or  a  brave  woman, 
will  do  what  he  has  to  do,  Evan/ 

'  I  am  not  brave,  except  in  the  way  every  man  is  brave. 
When  may  I  come,  Diana?  To-morrow?' 

'  O  no  ! ' 

1  Why  not?     Then  when? 

'  Not  this  week.' 

'  But  this  is  Tuesday.' 


382  DIANA. 

'  Yes.  And  Mrs.  Reverdy  is  waiting  for  you  all  this 
while.' 

'  I  have  been  waiting  all  these  years.  She  don't  know 
what  waiting  means.  Mayn't  I  come  again  before  Mon- 
day ? ' 

'  Certainly  not.  You  must  wait  till  then,  and  longer.' 
'  I  am  not  going  to  wait  longer.  Then  Monday,  Diana  ? ' 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her  and  she  laid  hers 
within  it.  The  first  time  that  day  ;  the  first  time  since 
so  many  days.  Hands  lingered,  were  slow  to  unclasp, 
loath  to  leave  the  touch  which  was  such  exquisite  pain  and 
pleasure  at  once.  Then,  without  looking  again,  slowly,  de. 
liberately,  as  all  her  movements  had  been  made,  Diana 
withdrew  from  the  room  ;  not  bearing  perhaps  to  stay  and 
have  him  leave  her,  or  doubting  of  her  power  to  make  him 
go,  or  unable  to  endure  anything  more  for  this  time.  She 
left  him  standing  there,  and  slowly  went  up  the  stairs.  But 
the  moment  she  got  to  her  room  she  stopped,  and  stood 
with  her  hands  pressed  upon  her  heart,  listening  ;  every 
parHcle  of  colour  vanishing  from  her  face  and  her  eyes 
taking  a  strained  look  of  despair  ;  listening  to  the  footsteps 
that,  also  slowly,  now  went  through  the  hall.  When  they 
went  out  and  had  quitted  the  house,  she  flew  to  the  win- 
dow. She  watched  to  see  the  stately  figure  go  along  the 
little  walk  and  out  at  the  gate  ;  she  had  hardly  dared  to 
look  at  him  down  stairs.  Now  her  eye  sought  out  every 
well  known  line  and  trait  with  an  eagerness  like  the  mad- 
ness of  thirst.  Yes,  he  had  grown  broader  in  the  shoul- 
ders ;  his  frame  was  developed  ;  he  had  become  more 
manly,  and  so,  even  finer  in  appearance  than  ever.  With- 
out meaning  it,  Diana  drew  comparisons.  How  well  he 
walked  !  what  a  firm,  sure  graceful  gait !  How  beloved  of 
old  time  was  the  officer's  undress  coat,  and  the  little  cap 


A   JUNE    DAY.  383 

which  reminded  Diana  so  inevitably  of  the  time  when  it 
was  at  home  on  her  table  or  lying  on  a  chair  near.  Only 
for  a  minute  or  two  she  tasted  the  bitter-sweet  pang  of  as- 
sociations ;  and  then  cap  and  wearer  were  passed  from 
her  sight. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

WIND   AND    TIDE. 

How  that  night  went  by  it  would  be  useless  to  try  to 
tell.  Some  things  cannot  be  described.  A  loosing  of  all 
the  bands  of  law  and  order  in  the  material  world  we  call 
chaos  ;  and  once  in  a  while  the  mental  nature  of  some  poor 
mortal  falls  for  a  time  into  a  like  condition.  No  hold 
of  anything,  not  even  of  herself;  no  clear  sense  of  any- 
thing, except  of  the  disorder  and  pain ;  no  hope  at  the 
moment  that  could  fasten  on  either  world,  the  present 
or  the  future  ;  no  will  to  lay  hold  of  the  unruly  forces  with- 
in her  and  reduce  them  to  obedience.  An  awful  night  for 
Diana  ;  such  as  she  never  had  spent,  nor  in  its  full  measure 
would  ever  spend  again.  Nevertheless,  through  all  the  con- 
fusion, under  all  the  tumult,  there  was  one  fixed  point ;  in- 
deed it  was  the  point  round  which  all  the  confusion  work- 
ed, and  which  Diana  was  dimly  conscious  of  all  the  while ; 
one  point  of  action.  At  the  time  she  could  not  steady  her- 
self to  look  at  it ;  but  when  the  dawn  came  up  in  the  sky, 
with  its  ineffable  promise  of  victory  by  and  by, — and  when 
the  rays  of  the  sun  broke  over  the  hills  with  their  golden 
performance  of  conquest  begun,  strength  seemed  to  come 
into  her  heart.  Certainly  light  has  no  fellowship  with 
darkness ;  and  the  spiritual  and  the  material  are  more 
closely  allied  perhaps  than  we  wot  of.  Diana  washed  her- 
self and  dressed  and  felt  that  she  had  done  with  yester- 
day. 

384 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  385 

It  was  a  worn  and  haggard  face  that  was  opposite  Basil 
at  the  breakfast  table ;  but  she  sat  there,  and  poured  out 
his  tea  with  not  less  care  than  usual.  Except  for  cups  of 
tea,  the  meal  was  not  much  more  than  a  pretence.  After 
it  was  done,  Diana  followed  her  husband  to  his  study. 

'Basil,'  she  said,  'I  must  go  away.' 

Mr.  Masters  started,  and  asked  what  she  meant. 

'  I  mean  just  that,'  said  Diana.  '  I  must  go  away 
Basil,  help  me  ! ' 

'  Help  you,  my  child  ? '  said  he  ;  '  I  will  help  you  all  I 
can  ;  but  sit  down,  Diana  ;  you  are  not  able  to  stand.  Why 
do  you  want  to  go  away  ? ' 

'  I  must.' 

'  Where  do  you  wish  to  go  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  know.     I  do  not  care.     Anywhere.' 

'  You  have  no  plan  ? ' 

'  No,  only  to  get  away.' 

'  Why,  Diana  ? '  he  said  very  tenderly.  '  Is  it  neces- 
sary ?  ' 

'  Yes,  Basil.     I  must  go.' 

'  Do  you  know  that  it  would  be  extremely  difficult  for 
me  to  leave  home  just  at  present.  There  are  so  many 
people  wanting  me.' 

'  I  know  that.  I  have  thought  of  all  that.  You  cannot 
go.  Let  me  go,  and  baby.' 

'  Where,  my  dear  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  she  said  with  almost  a  sob.  '  You  must 
know.  You  must  help  me,  Basil.' 

Basil  looked  at  her,  and  took  several  turns  up  and 
down  the  room,  in  sorrow  and  perplexity. 

'  What  is  your  reason,  Di  ? '  he  asked  gently.  '  If  I  under- 
stood your  thought  better,  I  should  know  better  how  to 
meet  it.' 

2?      . 


386  DIANA. 

'  I  must  be  away,'  said  Diana  vaguely.  '  I  must  not  be 
here.  I  musn't  be  where  I  can  see — anybody.  Nobody 
must  know  where  I  am,  Basil — do  you  understand  ?  You 
must  send  me  away  and  you  must  not  tell  anybody? 

The  minister  walked  up  and  down,  thinking.  He  let 
go  entirely  the  thought  of  arguing  with  Diana.  She  had  the 
look  at  moments  of  a  creature  driven  to  bay ;  and  when 
not  so,  the  haggard,  eager,  appealing  face  rilled  his  inmost 
heart  with  grief  and  pity.  Nobody  better  than  Basil  could 
manage  the  unreasonable  and  bring  the  disorderly  to  obe- 
dience ;  he  had  a  magical  way  with  him  ;  but  now  he  only 
meditated  how  Diana's  wish  was  to  be  met.  It  was  not 
just  easy,  for  he  had  few  family  connections  in  the  world, 
and  she  had  none. 

'  I  can  think  of  nobody  to  whom  I  should  like  to  send 
you,'  he  said.  '  Unless' — 

He  waited,  and  Diana  waited ;  then  he  finished  his 
sentence. 

'  I  was  going  to  say.  unless  a  certain  old  grand  aunt  of 
mine.  Perhaps  she  would  do.' 

'  I  do  not  care  where  or  who  it  is,'  said  Diana. 

'  I  care,  though.' 

'  Where  does  she  live  ? ' 

'  On  Staten  Island.' 

'  Staten  Island  ? '  repeated  Diana. 

'  Yes.  It  is  near  New  York ;  about  an  hour  from  the 
city,  down  the  bay.' 

'  The  bay  of  New  York  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  May  I  go  there  ? '  said  Diana.     '  That  would  do.' 

'  How  soon  do  you  wish  to  go  ? ' 

'  To-day,  if  I  could !  '  she  said  with  a  half  caught  breath. 
1  Can  I,  Basil  ?  To-day  is  best.' 

Mr.  Masters  considered  again. 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  387 

4  Will  you  be  ready  to  go  by  the  seven  o'clock  train  this 
evening  ? ' 

'  Yes.     O  yes  ! ' 

'  Very  well.     We  will  take  that.' 

'  We  ?  '  Diana  repeated.  '  Must  I  take  you,  Basil,  away 
from  your  work  ?  Cannot  I  go  alone  ? ' 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  very  sweet  grave  smile  as 
he  answered,  '  Not  possibly.' 

*  I  am  a  great  deal  of  trouble' — she  said  with  a  woeful 
expression. 

'  Go  and  make  your  preparations,'  he  said  cheerfully ; 
'  and  I  will  tell  you  about  aunt  Sutphen  when  we  are  off.' 

There  was  no  bustle  in  the  house  that  day,  there  was 
no  undue  stir  of  making  arrangements  ;  but  at  the  time  ap- 
pointed Diana  was  ready.  She  had  managed  to  keep  Miss 
Collins  in  the  dark  down  to  the  very  last  minute,  and 
answered  her  questions  then  with,  '  I  can't  tell  you.  You 
must  ask  Mr.  Masters.'  And  Diana  knew  anybody  might 
as  well  get  the  Great  Pyramid  to  disclose  its  secrets. 

That  night's  train  took  them  to  Boston.  The  next 
morning  they  went  on  their  way  towards  New  York  ;  and 
so  far  Mr.  Masters  had  found  no  good  time  for  his  pro- 
posed explanations.  Diana  was  busied  with  the  baby  and 
contrived  to  keep  herself  away  from  him  or  from  communi- 
cation with  him.  He  saw  that  she  was  engrossed,  preoc- 
cupied^ suffering  ;  and  that  she  shunned  him  ;  and  he  fell 
back  and  waited.  In  New  York,  he  established  Diana  in 
a  hotel  and  left  her,  to  go  himself  alone  to  the  Island  and 
have  an  interview  with  his  aunt. 

Diana  alone  in  a  Broadway  hotel,  felt  a  little  like  a  per- 
son shipwrecked  in  mid-ocean.  What  was  all  this  bustling, 
restless,  driving  multitude  around  her  like,  but  the  waves 
of  the  sea,  to  which  Scripture  likens  them  ?  and  the  roar  of 


388  DIANA. 

their  tumult  almost  bewildered  her  senses.  Proverbially 
there  is  no  situation  more  lonely  to  the  feeling  than  the 
midst  of  a  strange  crowd  ;  and  Diana  sitting  at  her  win- 
dow and  looking  down  into  the  busy  street,  felt  alone  and 
cast  adrift  as  she  never  had  felt  in  her  life  before.  Her  life 
seemed  done,  finished,  as  far  as  regarded  hope  or  joy  \ 
nothing  left  but  weary  and  dragging  existence  ;  and  the 
eager  hurrying  hither  and  thither  of  the  city  crowd  struck 
on  her  view  as  aimless  and  fruitless  and  so  very  drear  to 
look  at  ?  What  was  it  all  for  ? — seeing  life  was  such  a  thing 
as  she  had  found  it.  The  wrench  of  coining  away  from 
Pleasant  Valley  had  left  her  with  a  reaction  of  dull,  stunned 
and  strained  nerves  ;  she  was  glad  she  had  come  away,  glad 
she  was  no  longer  there  ;  and  that  was  the  only  thing  she 
was  glad  of  in  the  wide,  wide  world. 

Some  degree  of  rest  came  with  the  quiet  of  those  hours 
alone  in  the  hotel.  Basil  was  gone  until  the  evening,  and 
Diana  had  time  to  recover  a  little  from  the  fatigue  of  the 
journey,  and  in  the  perfect  solitude  also  from  the  overstrain 
of  the  nerves.  She  began  to  remember  Basil's  part  in  all 
this,  and  to  be  sensible  how  true  and  faithful  and  kind  he 
was ;  how  very  unselfish,  how  patient  with  her  and  with 
pain.  Diana  could  have  wept  her  heart  out  over  it,  if  that 
would  have  done  any  good,  and  indeed  supposing  that  she 
could  have  shed  tears  at  all,  which  she  could  not  just  then. 
She  only  felt  sore  and  sorry  for  her  husband  ;  and  then  she 
tbok  some  pains  with  her  toilet  and  refreshed  herself  so  as 
to  look  pleasant  to  his  eyes  when  he  came  home. 

He  came  home  only  to  a  late  supper.  He  looked  some- 
what weary,  but  his  eye  brightened  when  he  saw  Diana  and 
he  came  up  and  kissed  her. 

'  Diana — God  is  good,'  he  said  to  her. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered  looking  up  drearily,  *  I  believe  it.' 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  389 

'  But  you  do  not  feel  it  yet.  Well,  remember,  it  is  true, 
and  you  will  feel  it  some  day.  It  is  all  right  with  aunt 
Sutphen.' 

'  She  will  let  me  come  ? ' 

'  She  is  glad  to  have  you  come.  The  old  lady  is  very 
much  alone.  And  she  does  me  the  honor  to  say  that  she 
expects  my  wife  wiU  know  how  to  behave  herself.' 

'  What  does  she  mean  by  that  ? '  said  Diana  a  little 
startled. 

'  I  don't  know  !  Aunt  Sutphen  has  her  own  notions  re- 
specting behaviour.  I  did  not  inquire,  Diana  ;  knowing  that 
whatever  her  meaning  might  be,  it  was  the  same  thing  so 
far  as  you  are  concerned.' 

'  Basil — you  are  very  good  ! '  Diana  said  after  a  pause 
and  with  a  trembling  lip. 

'  I  can  take  compliments  from  aunt  Sutphen,'  he  said 
with  a  bit  of  his  old  dry  humorous  manner,  '  but  from  you 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  them.  Come  to  supper,  Di ; 
we  must  take  the  first  boat  for  Clifton  to-morrow  morning, 
if  we  can,  to  let  me  get  back  on  my  way  to  Pleasant  Val- 
ley.' 

The  first  boat  was  very  early.  The  city  however  had 
long  begun  its  accustomed  roar,  so  that  the  change  was 
noticeable  and  pleasant  as  soon  as  the  breadth  of  a  few 
furlongs  was  put  between  the  boat  and  the  wharf.  Still- 
ness fell,  only  excepting  the  noise  made  by  the  dash  of  the 
paddle  wheels  and  the  breathing  and  groaning  of  the  en- 
gine ;  and  that  seemed  quietness  to  Diana  in  contrast  with 
the  restless  hum  and  roar  of  the  living  multitude.  The 
bay  and  its  shores  sparkled  in  the  early  sunlight ;  the  sultry 
heated  atmosphere  of  the  city  was  most  refreshingly  re- 
placed by  the  cool  air  from  the  salt  sea.  Diana  breathed 
it  in,  filling  her  lungs  with  it. 


39°  DIANA. 

'  How  good  this  is  ! '  she  said.  '  Basil,  I  should  think 
it  was  dreadful  to  live  in  such  a  place  as  that.' 

'  Makes  less  difference  than  you  would  think,  when  you 
once  get  accustomed  to  it.' 

'  O  do  you  think  so  !  It  seems  to  me  there  is  nothing 
pleasant  there  to  see  or  to  hear.' 

'  Ay,  you  are  a  true  wood  thrush,'  said  her  husband. 
'  But  there  is  plenty  to  do  in  a  city,  Diana  ;  and  that  is  the 
main  thing.' 

'  So  there  is  in  the  country.' 

'  I  sometimes  think  I  might  do  more, — reach  more  peo- 
ple, I  mean, — if  I  were  somewhere  else.  But  yes,  Di,  I 
grant  you,  apart  from  that  one  consideration,  there  is  no 
comparison.  Green  hills  are  a  great  deal  better  company 
than  hot  brick  walls.' 

'  And  how  wonderful,  how  beautiful,  this  water  is  !  '• 

'  The  water  is  a  new  feature  to  you.  Well  you  will  have 
plenty  of  it.  Aunt  Sutphen  lives  just  on  the  edge  of  the 
shore.  I  am  very  sorry  I  cannot  stay  to  see  you  domes- 
ticated. Do  you  mind  it  much  ?  beginning  here  alone  ? ' 

'  O  no.' 

Diana  did  not  mind  that  or  anything  else,  in  her  con- 
tent at  having  reached  a  safe  harbour,  a  place  where  she 
would  be  both  secure  and  free.  Lesser  things  were  of  no 
account ;  and  alas,  the  presence  of  her  husband  just  now 
with  her  was  no  pleasure.  Diana  felt  at  this  time  that  if 
she  were  to  live  and  keep  her  reason  she  must  have  breath- 
ing space.  Above  all  things  she  desired  to  be  quite  alone  ; 
to  have  leisure  to  think  and  pray  and  review  her  ground  and 
set  up  her  defences.  Basil  could  not  help  her ;  he  was 
better  out  of  sight.  So  when  he  had  put  her  into  the  little 
carriage  that  was  in  waiting  at  the  landing  and  with  a  last 
gesture  of  greeting  turned  back  to  the  boat,  while  Diana's 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  39! 

eyes  filled  with  tears,  she  was,  nevertheless,  nothing  but 
glad  at  heart.  She  gathered  her  baby  closer  in  her  arms 
and  sat  back  in  the  carnage  and  waited. 

It  was  only  a  short  drive  and  along  the  edge  of  the  bay 
the  whole  distance.  The  smell  of  the  salt  water  was  s-trange 
and  delicious.  The  morning  was  still  cool.  Now  that  she 
had  le|(:  the  boat  behind  her,  or  rather  the  boat  had  left 
her,  the  stillness  began  to  be  like  that  of  Pleasant  Valley  ; 
for  the  light  wheels  rolled  softly  over  a  smooth  road.  Then 
they  stopped  before  a  low  plain-looking  cottage. 

It  was  low  and  plain,  yet  it  was  light  and  pleasant. 
Windows  opening  like  doors  upon  the  piazza,  and  the  piazza 
running  all  round  the  house,  and  the  pillars  of  the  piazza 
wreathed  thick  with  honeysuckles,  some  of  them,  and  some 
with  climbing  roses.  The  breath  of  the  salt  air  was  smoth- 
ered in  perfumes.  Through  one  of  the  open  window  doors 
Diana  went  into  a  matted  room,  where  everything  gave  her 
the  instant  impression  of  neatness  and  coolness  and  quiet 
and  a  certain  sweet  summer  freshness,  which  suited  her  ex- 
actly. There  was  no  attempt  at  richness  of  furnishing.  Yet 
the  old  lady  who  stood  there  waiting  to  receive  her  was  a 
stately  lady  enough,  in  a  spotless  morning  dress  of  white, 
dainty  and  ruffled,  and  a  little  close  embroidered  cap  above 
her  clustering  grey  curls.  The  two  looked  at  each  other. 

'  So  you're  his  wife  ! '  said  the  elder  lady.  '  I  declare, 
you're  handsomer  than  he  is.  Come  in  here,  my  dear  ;  if 
you  are  as  good  as  he  is,  you  are  welcome.'  She  opened 
an  inner  door  and  led  the  way  into  a  bedchamber  adjoin- 
ing, opening  like  the  other  room  by  window  doors  upon  the 
piazza,  matted  and  cool  and  furnished  in  white.  All  this 
Diana  took  in  with  the  first  step  into  the  room.  But  she 
answered  Mrs.  Sutphen's  peculiar  welcome. 

'  Did  you  ever  know  anybody  so  good  as  he  is,  ma'am  ? 


3Q2  DIANA. 

<  Breakfast  will  be  on  table  as  soon  as  you  are 
ready,'  Mrs.  Sutphen  went  on  without  heeding  her  words. 
'  It  is  half-past  seven,  and  I  always  have  it  at  seven.  I 
waited  for  you,  and  now  I  want  my  cup  of  tea.  How  soon 
will  you  be  ready  ? ' 

'  Immediately.' 

'  What  will  you  do  with  the  baby  ? ' 

'  I  will  lay  her  down.     She  is  asleep.' 

1  You'll  have  to  have  somebody  to  look  after  her.  Well, 
come  then,  my  dear.' 

Diana  followed  the  old  lady,  who  was  half  imperative 
and  half  impatient.  She  never  forgot  that  hour  in  all  her 
life,  everything  was  so  new  and  strange.  The  windows 
open  towards  the  water,  the  fresh  salt  air  coming  in,  the 
India  matting  under  her  feet,  made  her  feel  as  if  she  had  got 
into  a  new  world.  The  dishes  were  also  in  part  strange  to 
her,  and  her  only  companion  fully  strange.  The  good  cup 
of  tea  she  received  was  almost  the  only  familiar  thing,  for 
the  very  bread  was  like  no  bread  she  had  ever  seen  before. 
Diana  sipped  her  tea  gratefully ;  all  this  novelty  was  the 
most  welcome  thing  in  the  world  to  her  overstrained  nerves. 
She  sipped  her  tea  as  in  a  dream  ;  the  old  lady  studied  her 
with  eyes  wide  awake  and  practical. 

'  Where  did  Basil  pick  you  up,  my  dear  ? ' 

Diana  started  a  little,  looked  up  and  flushed. 

'  Where  did  you  come  from  ? ' 

'  From  the  place  where  Mr.  Masters  has  been  settled 
these  three  or  four  years.' 

'  In  the  mountains  !  What  sort  of  people  have  you  got 
there  ?  More  of  your  sort  ? ' 

'  They  are  all  of  my  sort,'  said  Diana  somewhat  won- 
deringly. 

'  Do  you  know  what  your  sort  is,   my  dear  ? ' 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  393 

'  I  do  not  understand — ' 

'  I  thought  you  did  not.  I'll  change  my  question.  What 
sort  of  work  is  Basil  doing  there  ? ' 

'  You  know  his  profession  ? ' — Diana  said,  not  knowing 
much  better  either  how  to  take  this  question. 

'  Yes,  yes.  I  know  his  profession  ;  I  ought  to,  for  I 
wanted  him  to  be  a  lawyer.  But  don't  you  know,  my  dear, 
there  are  all  sorts  of  clergymen..  There  are  some  make 
sermons  as  other  men  make  bricks  ;  and  some,  more  like 
the  way  children  blow  soap  bubbles  ;  all  they  care  for  is, 
how  big  they  are  and  how  high  they  will  fly  and  how  long 
they  will  last.  And  I  have  heard  people  preach,'  the  old 
lady  went  on,  '  who  seemed  most  like  as  if  they  were  laying 
out  a  Chinese  puzzle,  and  you  had  to  look  sharp  to  see 
where  the  pieces  fitted.  And  some  again  preach  sermons 
as  if  they  were  a  magistrate  reading  the  riot  act,  only  they 
don't  want  the  people  to  disperse  by  any  means.  What  is 
Basil's  way  ? ' 

'  He  has  more  ways  than  all  these,'  said  Diana,  who 
could  not  help  smiling. 

'  These  among  'em  ? ' 

'  I  think  not.' 

'  Go  on  then,  and  tell  me.  What's  he  like  in  the  pul- 
pit?' 

Diana  considered  how  she  should  humour  the  old  lady's 
wish. 

'  Sometimes  he  is  like  a  shepherd  leading  his  flock  to 
pasture,'  she  began.  '  Sometimes  he  is  like  a  life  boat  going 
out  to  pick  up  drowning  people.  Sometimes  it  is  rather 
a  surgeon  in  a  hospital,  going  round  to  find  out  what  is  the 
matter  with  people  and  make  them  well.  Sometimes  he  is 
just  the  messenger  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  all  his 
business  is  to  deliver  his  message  and  get  people  to  hear  it.' 


394  DIANA. 

Mrs.  Stuphen  looked  at  Diana  over  the  table  and  evi- 
dently pricked  up  her  ears  ;  but  Diana  spoke  quite  simply, 
rather  slowly  ;  she  was  thinking  how  Basil  had  often  seem- 
ed to  her  in  his  ministry,  in  and  out  of  the  pulpit. 

'  My  dear,'  said  the  old  lady,  '  if  your  husband  is  like 
that,  do  you  know  you  are  married  to  quite  a  remarkable 
man  ? ' 

'  I  thought  as  much  a  great  while  ago.' 

'  And  what  sort  of  a  pastor's  wife  do  you  make  ?  You 
are  a  very  handsome  woman  to  be  a  minister's  wife.' 

'  Am  I  ?  Why  should  not  a  handsome  woman  be  the 
wife  of  a  minister  ? ' 

'  Why,  she  should,  if  she  can  make  up  her  mind  to 
it.  Well,  my  dear,  if  you  will  have  no  more  breakfast,  per- 
haps you  will  like  to  go  and  rest.  Do  you  enjoy  bathing  ? ' 

Diana  did  not  take  the  bearing  of  the  question. 

'  I  go  into  the  water  every  morning,'  the  old  lady  ex 
plained.  '  You  had  better  do  the  same.  It  will  strength- 
en you.' 

*  Into  the  wa-ter  !     You  mean  the  salt  water  ? ' 

'  Of  course  I  mean  the  salt  wa-ter.  There  isn't  any 
fresh  water  to  go  into,  and  no  good  if  there  was.' 

'  I  never  tried  salt  water.  I  never  saw  salt  water  be- 
fore.' 

'  Do  you  good,'  said  the  old  lady.  '  Well,  go  and  sleep, 
my  dear.  Basil  says  you  want  rest.' 

But  that  way  of  taking  it  was  not  Diana's  need,  or  pur- 
pose. She  withdrew  into  her  cool  green-shaded  room,  and 
as  the  baby  still  slept,  set  open  the  blind  doors  which  made 
that  pleasant  green  shade,  and  sat  down  on  the  threshold 
to  be  quiet  and  enjoy  the  view.  The  water  was  within  a  few 
rods  of  her  window  ;  nothing  but  a  narrow  strip  of  grass 
and  a  little  picket  fence  intervening  between  the  house  and 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  395 

the  sandy  bit  of  beach.  The  waves  were  rolling  in  from 
the  Narrows,  which  here  were  but  a  short  distance  to  the 
eastward  ;  and  across  the  broad  belt  of  waters  she  could 
see  the  low  shore  of  Long  Island  on  the  other  side.  Diana 
put  her  head  out  of  the  door,  and  there,  seven  miles  away 
to  the  west  and  north,  she  could  see  where  a  low  hovering 
light  smoke  cloud  told  of  the  big  city  to  which  it  owed  its 
origin.  Over  the  bay  sails  were  flitting,  not  swiftly,  for  the 
air  was  only  very  gently  stirring  ;  but  they  were  many,  near 
and  far,  of  different  sizes  and  forms  ;  and  the  mighty  tide 
was  rushing  in  with  wonderful  life  and  energy  in  its  green 
waves.  Diana's  senses  were  like  those  of  a  person  en- 
chanted. She  drew  in  the  salt,  lively  air ;  she  looked  at 
the  cool  lights  and  shadows  of  the  rushing  water,  over 
which  here  and  there  still  hung  bands  of  morning  mist ;  she 
heard  the  lap  of  the  waves  upon  the  shore  as  they  went  by  ; 
and  it  was  to  her  as  if  she  had  escaped  from  danger  and 
perplexity  into  another  world,  where  sorrow  might  be  in- 
deed, but  from  which  confusion  and  fear  were  banished. 

The  baby  slept  on,  as  if  she  had  been  broken  of  her 
rest  by  the  novelties  and  inconveniences  of  travelling,  and 
were  making  up  for  lost  time  ;  and  Diana  sat  on  the  thres- 
hold of  her  door  and  thought.  The  lull  was  inexpressibly 
sweet,  after  the  storm  that  had  tossed  her  hither.  It  gave 
her  repose,  just  to  remember  that  Evan  could  not  find  her 
out — and  that  Basil  would  leave  her  alone.  Yes,  both 
thoughts  came  in  for  a  share  in  the  deep-drawn  breaths  of 
relief  which  from  time  to  time  wrung  themselves  from  Di- 
ana's breast.  She  knew  it ;  she  could  not  help  it ;  and  she 
soon  forgot  her  husband  in  thinking  of  her  lover.  It 
seemed  to  her  she  might  allow  herself  that  indulgence  now ; 
now  when  she  had  put  a  gulf  between  them  which  he  could 
not  bridge  over,  and  she  would  not ;  now  when  she  had 


396  DIANA. 

brought  a  separation  between  them  which  must  forever  be 
final.  For  she  would  never  see  him  again.  Surely  now 
she  might  think  of  him,  and  let  fancy  taste  the  sweet  bitter 
drops  that  memory  would  distil  for  her.  Diana  went  back 
to  the  old  time  and  lived  in  it  for  hours,  till  the  baby  awoke 
and  claimed  her ;  and  even  then  she  went  on  with  her 
dream.  She  dreamed  all  day. 

Next  morning  early,  before  she  was  awake,  there  came 
a  little  imperative  tap  at  her  door.  Diana  sprang  up  and 
opened  it. 

'I  am  going  to  take  my  bath,'  said  her  hostess. 
'  Here's  a  bathing  dress — put  it  on  and  come  along.' 

'  Now  ? '  said  Diana  doubtfully. 

'  Why  of  course  now  !  Now's  the  time.  Nobody'll  see 
you,  child  ;  and  if  they  do,  it  won't  matter.  Hundreds  would 
see  you  if  you  were  at  Long  Branch  or  Newport.  Come 
along;  you  want  bracing.' 

I  wonder  if  I  do  ?  thought  Diana,  as  she  clothed  her- 
self in  the  loose  gown  of  brown  mohair  ;  then  slipped  out 
after  her  hostess.  If  she  did,  she  immediately  confessed  to 
herself,  this  was  the  thing  to  give  it.  The  sun  was  not  yet 
up  ;  the  morning  air  crisp  and  fresh  and  delicious  ;  the 
water  rolling  gently  in  from  the  Narrows  again,  in  a  mighty 
tide,  but  with  no  wind,  so  sending  up  only  little  waves  to 
the  beach  ;  however  they  looked  somewhat  formidable  to 
Diana. 

'  How  far  do  you  go  in  ? '  she  asked. 

'  As  far  as  I  can.  I  can't  swim,  child,  so  I  keep  to 
shore.  Come  after  me,  here  ! ' 

And  she  seized  Diana's  hand  and  marched  in  ahead  of 
her  and  marched  on,  till  Diana  would  have  stopped,  but 
the  old  lady's  hand  pulled  her  along. 

It  was  never  to  be  forgotten,  that  first  taste  of  salt 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  397 

water.  When  they  were  in  the  flood  up  to  their  necks,  her 
companion  made  her  duck  her  head  under ;  it  filled  Di- 
ana's mouth  and  eyes  at  the  first  gasp  with  salt  water,  but 
what  a  new  freshness  of  life  seemed  at  the  same  time  to 
come  into  her !  How  her  brain  cleared  and  her  very  heart 
seemed  to  grow  strong  and  her  eyesight  true  in  that  lava- 
tory !  She  came  out  of  the  water  for  the  moment  almost 
gay,  and  made  her  toilette  with  a  vigour  and  energy  she 
had  not  brought  to  it  in  many  a  day.  Breakfast  was  bet- 
ter to  her,  and  the  old  lady  was  contented  with  what  she 
said  about  it. 

Yet  Diana  sat  and  dreamed  again  all  day  after  that ; 
watching  the  rolling  tide  of  waters  and  letting  her  thoughts 
run  on  in  as  uninterrupted  a  flow.  She  dreamed  only  about 
Evan  ;  she  went  over  old  times  and  new,  old  impressions 
and  new  ;  she  recalled  words  and  looks  and  tones  and 
gestures,  of  long  ago  and  lately ;  at  Pleasant  Valley  she 
had  not  dared  ;  here  she  thought  it  was  safe  and  she  might 
take  the  indulgence.  She  recalled  all  Evan's  looks.  How 
he  had  improved  !  More  stately,  more  manly,  more  confi- 
dent, (could  that  be  ?)  more  graceful ;  with  the  air  of  com- 
mand replacing  a  comparative  repression  of  manner,  (only 
comparative)  even  as  the  full  thick  curly  moustache  re- 
placed a  velvety  dark  line  which  Diana  well  remembered. 
As  he  had  been  then  she  had  fancied  him  perfect ;  as  he 
was  now  he  was  to  the  eye  far  finer  yet.  Basil  could  not 
compare  with  him.  Ah  why  did  fancy  torture  her  by  ever 
bringing  forward  the  comparison  !  Basil  never  pretended 
to  wear  a  moustache,  and  the  features  of  his  face  were  not 
so  regular,  and  his  eye  was  not  so  brilliant,  and  the  inde- 
scribable air  of  authority  was  not  there,  nor  the  regulated 
grace  of  movement.  True,  Basil  could  sit  a  horse,  and 
ride  him,  she  knew  as  well  as  anybody  ;  and  true,  Basil's 


398  DIANA. 

face  had  a  high  grave  sweetness  which  was  utterly  unknown 
to  the  countenance  of  that  other  ;  and  it  was  also  true,  that 
if  Mr.  Masters  wore  no  air  of  command,  he  knew  what  the 
thing  meant,  especially  command  over  himself.  And  there 
the  comparison  failed  for  Evan.  In  the  contrast,  Diana 
clown  deep  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  was  not  satis- 
fied with  him,  not  pleased,  not  contented.  He  might  know 
how  to  give  orders  to  his  company,  he  had  not  left  off  him- 
self being  under  orders  ;  he  might  be  strong  to  enforce 
discipline  among  his  men  ;  but  alas,  alas,  he  had  left  the 
reins  loose  upon  the  neck  of  his  passions.  Basil  never  did 
that,  never.  Basil  never  would  in  the  like  circumstances 
have  sought  a  weak  gratification  at  her  expense.  That 
was  the  word  ;  weak.  Evan  had  been  selfishly  weak.  Basil 
was  always,  so  far  as  she  had  known  him,  unselfishly  strong. 
And  yet,  and  yet ! — she  loved  the  weak  one  ;  although  it 
pained  her  that  he  should  have  been  weak. 

Days  went  by.     Diana  lived  in  dreams. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? '  her  old  friend  asked 
her  abruptly  one  evening. 

'  Nothing,  I  think,'  said  Diana  looking  up  from  her  sew- 
ing and  answering  in  some  surprise. 

'  Nothing  the  matter  !  Then  what  did  you  come  here 
for?' 

'  I  thought ' — Diana  hesitated  in  confusion  for  the  mo- 
ment,— 'my  husband  agreed  with  me  in  thinking,  that  it 
would  be  good  for  me  to  be  away  from  home  for  awhile.' 

'  Wanted  change,  eh  ? '  Mrs.  Sutphen  said  drily.  Di- 
ana did  not  know  what  to  add  to  her  words. 

'Change  and  salt  air — '  the  old  lady  went  on. 

'  Not  salt  air  particularly,'  Diana  answered,  feeling  that 
she  must  answer.  '  I  did  not  think  of  salt  air.  Though 
no  change  could  have  been  so  good  for  me.' 


WIND    AND    TIDE.  399 

lHas  it  been  good  for  you  ? ' 

'  I  have  enjoyed  it  more  than  I  can  tell,'  Diana  said, 
looking  up  again. 

'  Yes,  yes,  but  that  isn't  the  thing.  I  know  you  enjoy 
it.  But  do  you  think  it  is  making  you  fat  ? ' 

'  I  don't  need  that,'  said  Diana  smiling.  '  I  am  fat 
enough.' 

'  You  won't  be,  if  you  go  on  losing  as  you  have  done 
since  you  came.  Now  I  agree  with  you  that  I  don't  think 
that  is  Clifton  air.  What  is  it  ? ' 

Diana  could  not  reply.  She  was  startled  and  troubled. 
She  knew  the  fact  was  true. 

'  Basil  won't  like  it  if  I  let  this  go  on  ;  and  I  don't 
mean  it  shall.  Is  anything  the  matter  between  you  and- 
him  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  Diana  asked,  to  gain  time. 

'You  know  what  I  mean.  I  spoke  plain.  Have  you 
and  he  had  any  sort  of  a  quarrel  or  disagreement  ? ' 

'  Certainly  not !  ' 

'  Certainly  not? — then  why  aren't  you  happy  ? ' 

'  Why  do  you  ask  me  ? '  said  Diana.  '  Why  should  you 
question  my  being  happy?' 

'  I've  got  eyes,  child  ;  inconvenient  things,  for  they  see. 
You  look  and  act  like  a  marble  woman  ;  only  that  you  are 
not  cold,  and  that  you  move  about  Now  that  isn't  your 
nature.  What  spell  has  come  over  you  ? ' 

'  You  know,  Mrs.  Sutphen,'  Diana  answered  with  calm- 
ness, '  there  are  many  things  that  come  up  in  the  world  to 
try  one  and  trouble  one  ;  things  one  cannot  help,  and  that 
one  must  bear.' 

'  I  know  that,  as  well  as  you  do.  But  a  woman  with 
the  husband  you  have  got,  ought  never  to  be  petrified  by 
anything  that  comes  to  her.  In  the  first  place,  she  has  no 
cause  ;  and  in  the  second  place,  she  has  no  right.' 


4OO  DIANA. 

There  was  such  an  instant  assent  of  Diana's  inner  nature 
to  at  least  the  latter  of  these  assertions,  that  after  a  minute 
or  two's  pause  she  said  very  simply, 

'  Thank  you,     That  is  true.' 

'  He's  rather  fond  of  you,  isn't  he  ? '  the  old  lady  asked 
with  a  well-pleased  look  at  her  beautiful  neighbour. 

'  Yes.     Too  much,'  said  Diana  sighing. 

'  Can't  be  too  much,  as  I  see,  if  only  you  are  equally 
fond  of  him  ;  it  is  bad  to  have  inequality  in  that  matter. 
But  my  dear,  whatever  you  do,  don't  turn  into  marble. 
There's  fire  at  the  heart  of  the  earth,  folks  say,  but  it  don't 
do  us  much  good  in  winter.' 

With  this  oracular  statement  Mrs.  Sutphen  closed  her 
lecture.  She  had  said  enough.  Diana  spent  half  that 
night  and  all  the  next  day  in  a  quite  new  set  of  medita- 
tions. 

And  more  days  than  one.  She  waked  up  to  see 
what  she  had  been  doing.  What  business  had  she  to  be 
thinking  of  Evan,  when  she  was  Basil's  wife  ?  what  right 
to,  be  even  only  in  imagination,  spending  her  life  with  him  ? 
She  knew,  now  that  she  was  called  to  look  at  it,  that  Mrs. 
Sutphen  had  spoken  true,  and  that  a  process  had  been  go- 
ing on  in  herself  which  might  well  be  likened  to  the  pro- 
cess of  petrifying.  Everything  had  been  losing  taste  and 
colour  lately  ;  even  her  baby  was  not  the  delight  she  had 
been  formerly.  Her  mind  had  been  warped  from  its 
healthy  condition  and  was  growing  morbid.  Conscience 
roused  up  now  fully  and  bade  Diana  stop  short  where  she 
was  and  take  another  course.  But  there  she  was  met  by  a 
difficulty  ;  one  that  many  a  woman  has  had  to  meet,  and 
that  few  have  ever  overcome.  To  take  another  course, 
meant  that  she  should  cease  thinking  of  Evan  ;  cease  think- 
ing of  him  even  at  all ;  for  it  was  one  of  those  things  which 


WIND   AND    TIDE.  4OI 

you  cannot  do  a  little.  She  tried  it ;  and  she  found  it  to 
be  impossible.  Everything  and  anything  would  set  her 
upon  the  track  of  thinking  of  him  ;  everything  led  to  him  ; 
everything  was  bound  up  with  him,  either  by  sympathy  or 
contrast.  She  found  that  she  must  think  of  Evan,  because 
she  loved  him.  She  said  that  to  herself,  and  pleaded  it. 
Then  do  not  love  him  !  was  the  instant  sharp  answer  o£ 
conscience.  And  Diana  saw  a  battle  set  in  array. 

That  day,  the  day  when  she  got  to  this  point,  was  one 
of  those  which  even  in  summer  one  may  know  on  the 
sea  shore.  It  was  grey  and  cool,  and  a  violent  easterly 
wind  was  driving  the  waters  in  from  the  Narrows.  The 
moment  Diana  got  a  sight  of  those  battle  forces  opposed 
to  each  other  in  her  spiritual  nature,  she  threw  on  bonnet 
and  shawl  and  went  out.  Baby  was  sleeping,  and  she  left 
her  safely  in  charge  of  a  good-tempered  servant  who  asked 
no  better. 

She  went  along  the  shore  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  meet- 
ing, breasting,  overcoming  it,  though  with  the  exertion  of 
determined  strength  and  energy.  The  gale  was  rather  fierce. 
It  was  a  sight  to  see,  the  rush  of  that  tide  of  waters,  mighty, 
sweeping,  rolling  and  tumbling  in  from  the  great  sea,  rest 
less,  endless.  Diana  did  not  stop  to  draw  comparisons 
yet  I  think  she  felt  them  even  then  ;  the  wild  accord  of  the 
unchained  forces  without  and  the  unchained  forces  within. 
Who  could  stay  them,  the  one  or  the  other  ?  '  That  is  Na- 
ture,' said  Diana  to  herself  ;  '  and  this  is  Nature  ;  "  the 
troubled  sea  that  cannot  rest."  But  that  is  spoken  of  the 
wicked  ;  am  I  wicked  because  I  cannot  help  what  I  cannot 
help  ?  As  well  put  out  my  tiny  hand  and  sweep  back  that 
stormy  flood  of  water  to  the  ocean  where  it  comes  from  ! 
as  hopefully,  as  practicably.  What  am  1, 7 — but  a  chip  or  a 
shingle  tossed  and  chased  along  on  the  power  of  the  waves 
26 


4O2  DIANA. 

The  wicked  are  like  the  troubled  sea  when  it  cannot  rest ; 
that  is  it.  it  cannot  rest.  Look  at  it,  and  think  of  bidding 
it  rest ! ' 

She  had  walked  a  long  way  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm, 
and  yet  unwilling  even  to  turn  her  face  homewards  with  her 
mind  still  at  war,  she  had  crouched  down  to  rest  under  the 
lee  of  an  old  shed  which  stood  near  the  edge  of  the  water. 
Diana  drew  her  shawl  closer  round  her  and  watched  the 
wild  play  of  the  waves,  which  grew  wilder  every  moment ; 
taking  a  sort  of  gloomy  comfort  in  the  thought  that  they 
were  not  more  irresistible  or  unopposable  than  the  tempest 
in  her  own  heart.  Then  came  in  the  thought — it  stole  in — 
"  There  was  One  who  could  bid  it  be  still — and  the  sea 
heard  him  and  was  quiet.  If  he  could  do  that,  could  he 
not  still  this  other  storm  ?  A  worse  storm,  yes  ;  but  could 
not  the  hand  that  did  one  thing  do  the  other  ? "  Diana  knew 
on  the  instant  that  it  could  ;  but  with  that  came  another 
consciousness — that  she  wished  it  could  not.  She  did  not 
want  the  storm  laid.  Better  the  raging  forces  than  the 
calm  that  would  follow  the  death  of  her  love  for  Evan 
Knowlton.  '  But  it  could  never  die  ! '  was  the  impatient 
objection  of  her  heart.  And  then  came  the  whisper  of  con- 
science, '  It  ought ;  you  know  it  ought ;  and  the  Lord 
never  bade  you  do  a  thing  he  would  not  help  you  to  do,  or 
do  for  you  if  you  are  willing.'  And  she  remembered, — "  If 
ye  shall  say  to  this  mountain,  Be  thou  removed  " — Could 
she  be  willing  ?  that  was  all.  Would  she  say  it  ? 

The  Lord  said,  there  are  some  sorts  of  devils  that  are 
only  cast  out  by  prayer  and  fasting  :  and  I  suppose  that 
means,  by  very  great  and  determinate  laying  hold  of  the 
offered  strength  and  fullest  surrender  to  all  its  disposi- 
tions. 

This  was  a  battle  before  which  Waterloo  sinks   to  a 


WIND   AND   TIDE.  403 

play  of  fire  crackers  and  Gravelotte  to  a  great  wrestling 
match.  There  was  struggle  on  those  fields,  and  bitter  de- 
termination, and  death  faced  and  death  met ;  and  yet  the 
combatants  there  never  went  to  the  front  with  the  agony 
which  Diana's  fight  cost  her.  And  if  anybody  thinks  I  am 
extravagant,  I  will  remind  him  on  what  authority  we  have 
it,  that  "  He  that  ruleth  his  spirit  is  greater  than  he  that 
taketh  a  city."  Let  no  one  suppose  the  battle  in  Diana's 
instance  was  soon  fought  and  over.  It  was  death  to  give 
up  Evan ;  not  the  death  of  the  body,  which  lived  on  and 
was  strong  though  she  grew  visibly  thin  ;  but  the  death  of 
the  will ;  and  that  is  a  death  harder  by  far  than  the  other. 
Diana  was  in  the  struggle  of  that  fight  for  many  a  day,  and 
as  I  said,  growing  thin  under  it.  She  was  not  Mjtt|pg  ;  if 
she  could  be  delivered  from  this  passion  which  was  like  her 
life,  she  was  not  willing  to  be  delivered.  Yet  duty  was 
plain  ;  conscience  was  inexorable.  Diana  struggled  and 
fought  till  she  could  fight  no  longer,  and  then  she  dragged 
herself  as  it  were  to  the  feet  of  the  Stiller  of  the  waves  with 
the  cry  of  the  Syrophenician  woman  on  her  lips  and  in  her 
heart ;  '  Lord,  help  me  ! '  But  the  help,  Diana  knew  by  this 
time,  meant  that  he  should  do  all  the  work  himself,  not  come 
in  aid  of  her  efforts,  which  were  like  ropes  of  straw  in  a  flame. 
Let  no  one  think,  either,  that  the  first  struggle  to  have  faith 
was  faith  itself,  or  that  the  first  endeavour  to  submit  was 
surrender.  There  is  a  wide  difference,  and  often  a  wide 
distance.  But  there  came  a  time,  it  was  slow  in  coming, 
but  it  came,  when  like  a  wearied  child  Diana  ceased  from 
her  own  efforts  and  like  a  helpless  child  threw  herself  upon 
strength  that  she  knew.  And  then  the  work  was  done. 

Let  no  one  say,  either,  that  what  I  have  described  is 
an  impossibility.  "  If  ye  have  faith," — the  Master  said, — 
"  nothing  shall  be  impossible  to  you."  And  nothing  is. 


404  DIANA. 

"  He  is  a  Rock ;  his  work  is  perfect."  And  he  who  over- 
came all  our  enemies  for  us  can  overcome  them  in  us. 
They  are  conquered  foes.  Only,  the  Lord  will  not  do  the 
work  for  those  who  are  trusting  in  themselves. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BUDS     AND     BLOSSOMS. 

IT  was  the  end  of  September.  Nearing  a  time  of  storms 
again  in  the  air  and  on  the  sea  ;  but  an  absolute  calm  had 
settled  clown  upon  Diana.  Not  at  all  the  calm  of  death  ; 
for  after  death,  in  this  warfare,  comes  not  only  victory  but 
new  life.  It  was  very  strange,  even  to  herself.  She  had 
ceased  to  think  of  Captain  Knowlton ;  if  she  thought  of 
him  it  was  with  the  recognition  that  his  power  over  her  was 
gone.  She  felt  like  a  person  delivered  from  helpless  bondage. 
There  was  some  lameness,  there  were  some  bruises  yet  from 
the  fight  gone  by ;  but  Diana  was  every  day  recovering 
from  these,  and  elasticity  and  warmth  were  coming  back  to 
the  members  that  had  been  but  lately  rigid  and  cold.  The 
sun  shone  again  for  her,  and  the  sky  was  blue,  and  the  arch 
of  it  grew  every  day  loftier  and  brighter  to  her  sense.  At  first 
coming  to  Clifton  Diana  had  perceived  the  beauties  and 
novelties  of  her  new  surroundings  ;  now  she  began  to  enjoy 
them.  The  salt  air  was  delicious  ;  the  light  morning  mist 
over  the  bay,  as  she  saw  it  when  she  went  to  take  her 
morning  bath,  held  a  whole  day  of  sunlit  promise  within 
its  mysterious  folds ;  the  soft  low  hum  of  the  distant  city, 
which  she  could  hear  when  the  waves  were  still,  made  the 
solitude  and  the  freshness  and  the  purity  of  the  island 
seem  doubly  rare  and  sweet.  And  her  baby  began  to  be 
now  to  Diana  the  most  wonderful  of  delights  ;  more  than 
ever  it  had  been  at  any  previous  time. 


406  DIANA. 

All  this  while  she  had  had  letters  from  Basil ;  not  very 
long  letters,  such  as  a  man  can  write  to  a  woman  whose 
whole  sympathy  he  knows  he  has ;  but  good  letters,  such 
as  a  man  can  write  to  a  woman  to  whom  his  own  heart  and 
soul  have  given  all  they  have.  Not  that  he  ever  spoke  of 
that  fact  or  alluded  to  it.  Basil  was  no  maudlin,  and  no 
fool  to  ask  for  a  gift  which  cannot  be  yielded  by  an  effort  of 
will ;  and  besides,  he  had  never  entirely  lost  hope  ;  so  that, 
though  things  were  dark  enough  for  him  certainly,  he  could 
write  manly,  strong,  sensible  letters,  which  in  their  very 
lack  of  all  allusion  to  his  own  feelings  spoke  whole  volumes 
to  the  woman  who  knew  him  and  could  interpret  them. 
The  thought  of  him  grieved  her ;  it  was  getting  to  be  now 
the  only  grief  she  had.  Her  own  letters  to  him  were  brief 
and  rare.  Diana  had  a  nervous  fear  of  letting  the  Clifton 
postmark  be  seen  on  a  letter  of  hers  at  home,  knowing 
Avhat  sort  of  play  sometimes  went  on  in  the  Pleasant  Val- 
ley post  office  ;  so  she  never  sent  a  letter  except  when  she 
had  a  chance  to  despatch  it  from  New  York.  These  epis. 
ties  were  very  abstract ;  they  spoke  of  the  baby,  told  of 
Mrs.  Sutphen,  gave  details  of  things  seen  and  experienced  ; 
but  of  Diana's  inner  life,  the  fight  and  the  victory,  not  a 
whit.  She  could  not  write  about  them  to  Basil ;  for  glad 
as  he  would  be  of  what  she  could  tell  him,  she  could  not 
say  enough.  In  getting  deliverance  from  a  love  it  was 
wrong  to  indulge,  in  becoming  able  to  forget  Evan,  she 
had  not  thereby  come  nearer  to  her  husband  or  in  the  least 
fonder  of  thinking  of  him  ;  and  so  Diana  shrank  from  the 
whole  subject  when  she  found  herself  with  pen  in  hand  and 
paper  before  her. 

When  September  was  gone  and  October  had  begun  its 
course,  a  letter  came  from  Basil  in  which  he  desired  to 
know  about  Diana's  plans.  There  were  no  hindrances  any 


BUDS    AND    BLOSSOMS.  /J.O/ 

longer  in  the  way  of  her  coming  home,  he  told  her.  Diana 
had  known  that  such  a  notification  would  come,  must  come, 
and  yet  it  gave  her  an  unwelcome  start.  Mrs.  Sutphen  had 
handed  it  to  her  as  they  came  in  from  their  morning  dip 
in  the  salt  water ;  the  coachman  had  brought  it  late  last 
evening  from  the  post  office,  she  said.  Diana  had  dressed 
before  reading  it ;  and  when  she  had  read  it,  she  sat  down 
upon  the  threshold  of  her  glass  door  to  think  and  exam- 
ine herself. 

It  was  October,  yet  still  and  mild  as  June.  Haze  lay 
lingering  about  the  horizon,  softened  the  shore  of  Long 
Island,  hid  with  a  thick  curtain  the  place  of  the  busy  city  ; 
the  roar  of  which  Diana  could  plainly  enough  hear  in  the 
stillness,  a  strange,  indistinct,  mysterious,  significant  mur- 
mur of  distant  unrest.  All  before  and  around  her  was 
rest ;  the  flowing  waters  were  too  quiet  to-day  to  suggest 
anything  disquieting,  only  life,  without  which  rest  is  nought. 
The  air  was  inexpressibly  sweet  and  fresh  ;  the  young  light 
of  the  day  dancing  as  it  were  upon  every  cloud  edge  and 
sail  edge,  in  jocund  triumph  beginning  the  work  which  the 
day  would  see  done.  Diana  sat  down  and  looked  out  into 
it  all  and  tried  to  hold  communion  with  herself.  She  was 
sorry  to  leave  this  place.  Yes,  why  not  ?  She  was  sorry 
to  exchange  her  present  life  for  the  old  one.  Quiet  and 
solitary  it  had  been,  this  life  at  Clifton,  for  Mrs.  Sutphen 
scarcely  made  her  feel  less  alone  with  her  than  without  her ; 
and  she  had  held  herself  back  from  society.  Quiet  and 
solitary,  and  lately  healing  ;  and  Pleasant  Valley  was  full 
of  painful  memories  and  associations,  her  mother,  and — her 
husband.  Diana  felt  as  if  she  could  have  welcomed  every- 
thing else,  if  only  Basil  had  not  been  there.  The  sight  of 
the  lovely  bay  with  its  misty  shores  and  its  springing  light 
hurt  her  at  last,  because  she  must  leave  it ;  she  sank  her 


408  DIANA. 

face  in  her  hands  and  began  to  call  herself  to  account. 
Duty  was  waiting  before  her  ;  was  she  not  willing  to  take 
it  up  ?  She  had  surrendered  her  will  utterly  to  God  in  the 
matter  of  her  love  to  Evan,  and  she  had  been  delivered 
from  the  torture  and  the  bondage  of  it ;  quite  delivered ; 
she  could  bear  to  live  without  Evan  now,  she  could  bear  to 
live  without  thinking  of  him  ;  he  would  always  be  in  a  cer- 
tain sense  dear,  but  the  spell  of  passion  was  broken  for 
ever.  That  did  not  make  her  love  her  husband.  No  ;  but 
would  not  the  same  strength  that  had  freed  her  from  tempta- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  help  her  to  go  forward  and  do  her 
duty  on  the  other  ?  And  in  love  and  gratitude  for  the 
deliverance  vouchsafed  her,  should  she  not  do  it  ?  'I  will 
do  it,  if  I  die  ! '  was  her  inward  conclusion.  '  And  I  shall 
not  die,  but  by  the  Lord's  help  I  shall  do  it.' 

So  she  wrote  to  her  husband  that  she  was  ready,  and 
he  came  to  fetch  her. 

The  Pleasant  Valley  maples  were  flaunting  in  orange 
and  crimson  when  the  home  journey  was  made.  The  fairest 
month  of  the  year  was  in  the  prime  of  its  beauty ;  the  air 
had  that  wonderful  clearness  and  calm  which  bids  the 
spirit  of  the  beholder  be  still  and  be  glad,  saying  that  there 
is  peace  and  victory  somewhere,  and  rest,  when  the  harvest 
of  life  is  gathered.  Diana  felt  the  speech,  but  thought 
nevertheless  that  for  her  peace  and  victory  were  a  good 
way  off.  She  believed  they  would  come,  when  life  was  done  ; 
the  present  thing  was  to  live,  and  carry  the  burden  and  do 
the  work.  The  great  elms  hung  still  green  and  sheltering 
over  the  lean-to  door.  The  house  was  enlarged  and  im- 
proved ;  and  greatly  beautified  with  a  coat  of  paint.  Diana 
saw  it  all ;  and  she  saw  the  marvellous  beauty  of  the  mea- 
dows and  their  bordering  hills  ;  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
coming  to  her  prison  and  place  of  hard  labour. 


BUDS    AND    BLOSSOMS.  4OQ 

<  How  do  you  like  the  looks  of  things  ? '  her  husband 
asked. 

'  Nice  as  can  be.' 

'You  like  it?' 

'  Very  much.  I  am  glad  you  did  not  make  the  house 
white.' 

'  I  remembered  you  said  it  ought  to  be  brown.' 

'  But  would  you  have  liked  it  white  ? ' 

'  I  would  have  liked  it  no  way  but  your  way,'  he  said 
with  a  slight  smile  and  look  at  her,  which  Diana  could  not 
answer,  and  which  cut  her  sharply.  She  had  noticed,  she 
thought,  that  Basil  was  more  sober  than  he  used  to  be. 
She  thought  she  knew  why ;  and  she  wanted  to  tell  him  part 
of  what  had  gone  on  in  her  mind  of  late  and  how  free  she 
was  of  the  feelings  he  supposed  were  troubling'  her  ;  but  a 
great  shyness  of  the  subject  had  seized  Diana.  She  was 
afraid  to  broach  it  at  all,  lest  going  on  from  one  thing  to 
another  Basil  might  ask  a  question  she  could  not  answer. 
She  was  very  sorry  for  him,  so  much  that  she  almost  forgot 
to  be  sorry  for  herself,  as  she  went  into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Flandin  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Starling  in  the  lean- 
to  kitchen. 

'  So  you  made  up  your  mind  to  come  home,'  was  her 
mother's  greeting.  '  I  almost  wonder  you  did.' 

'  If  you  knew  how  good  the  salt  water  was  to  me,  you 
might  wonder,'  Diana  answered  cheerfully. 

'  Well,  I  never  could  see  what  there  was  in  salt  water  ! ' 
said  Mrs.  Flandin,  '  that  folks  should  be  so  crazy  to  go  into 
it !  If  I  was  drownin,'  'seems  to  me  I'd  rather  have  my 
mouth  full  o'  sun'thin'  sweet.' 

'  But  I  was  not  drowning,'  said  Diana. 

'  Well,  I  want  to  know  what  you've  got  by  stayin'  away 
from  your  place  all  summer — '  her  mother  went  on. 


4IO  DIANA. 

'  Her  place  was  there,'  said  the  minister,  who  followed 
Diana  in. 

'  Now  dominie,'  said  Mrs.  Flandin,  'you  say  that  jes' 
'cause  she's  your  wife.  Hain't  her  place  been  empty  all 
these  months  ?  Where  is  a  wife's  place  ?  I  should  like  to 
hear  yo.u  say.' 

'  Don't  you  think  it  is  where  her  husband  wants  her  to 
be?' 

'  And  you  wanted  her  to  be  away  from  you  down  there  ? 
Do  you  mean  that  ? ' 

'  If  he  had  not,  I  should  not  have  gone,  Mrs.  Flandin,' 
Diana  said,  and  with  a  smile. 

'Well  now,  du  tell  !  what  good  did  salt  water  do  ye? 
The  minister  said  you  was  gone  to  salt  water  somewheres.' 

'  It  did  me  more  good  than  I  could  ever  make  you  un- 
derstand.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling  harshly.  '  You 
mean  it  was  a  clever  thing  to  play  lady  and  sit  with  your 
hands  before  you  all  summer.  It  was  good  there  was  some? 
body  at  home  to  do  the  work.' 

'  Not  your  work,  Di,'  said  her  husband  good  humour- 
edly, — '  nor  my  work.  I  did  that.  Come  along,  and  see 
what  I  have  done.' 

He  drew  her  off,  into  the  little  front  hall  or  entry,  from 
there  through  a  side  door  into  the  new  part  of  the  building. 
There  was  a  roomy,  cool,  bright  room,  lined  with  the  min- 
ister's books  ;  curtained  and  furnished,  not  expensively  in- 
deed, yet  with  a  thorough  air  of  comfort.  Taking  the  baby 
from  her  arms,  Basil  led  the  way  from  this  room,  up  a  short 
stairway,  to  chambers  above  which  were  charmingly  neat, 
light  and  cheerful,  all  in  order  ;  everything  was  done,  every- 
thing was  there  that  ought  to  be  there.  He  laid  the  sleep- 
ing child  down  in  its  crib  and  turned  to  his  wife  with  a  se- 
rious face. 


BUDS   AND   BLOSSOMS.  411 

'  How  will  you  stand  it,  Diana  ? ' 

'  Basil,  I  was  just  thinking,  how  will  you  I' 

'  We  can  do  what  ought  to  be  done  ? '  said  he,  looking 
into  her  face. 

'  I  know  you  can.  I  think  I  can  too,  in  this.  And  I 
think  it  is  right  to  take  care  of  mother.  I  am  sure  it  is.' 

'  Diana,  by  the  Lord's  help  we  can  do  right  in  every- 
thing.' 

'  Yes,  Basil ;  I  know  it ! '  she  said,  meeting  his  eyes  with 
a  steady  look. 

He  turned  away,  very  grave,  but  with  a  deep  ejacula- 
tion of  thankfulness.  Diana's  eyes  filled;  but  she  too 
turned  away.  She  could  add  no  more.  It  was  not  words 
but  living,  that  must  speak  for  her  now. 

And  it  did.  Even  that  same  evening.  Mrs.  Flandin 
would  not  go  away,  it  was  too  good  an  opportunity  of  gath- 
ering information  about  various  points  on  which  the  "  town  " 
had  been  curious  and  divided.  She  kept  her  place  till  after 
supper.  But  all  she  could  see  was  a  fair,  quiet  demeanour ; 
an  unruffled  beautiful  face ;  and  an  unconscious  dignity  of 
carriage  which  was  somewhat  provokingly  imposing.  She 
saw  that  Diana  was  at  home  and  likely  to  be  mistress  in  her 
own  sphere  ;  held  in  too  much  honour  by  her  husband,  and 
holding  him  in  too  much  honour,  for  that  a  pin's  point  of 
malicious  curiosity  might  find  an  entering  place  between 
them.  She  reported  afterwards,  that  the  minister  was  a 
fool  and  his  wife  another,  and  so  they  fitted.  Mrs.  Starling 
was  inclined  to  be  of  the  same  opinion. 

The  two  most  nearly  concerned  knew  better.  Fit  they 
did  not,  though  they  were  the  only  ones  of  all  the  world 
that  knew  it.  While  Diana  had  been  away  at  Clifton,  the 
minister  had  managed  to  make  one  of  the  company  at  Elm- 
field  rather  often,  moved  by  various  reasons.  One  effect 


412  DIANA. 

however  of  this  plan  of  action  had  been  unfavourable  to 
his  own  peace  of  mind.  He  saw  Evan  and  came  to  know 
him ;  he  would  know  him,  though  the  young  man  would 
much  rather  have  kept  aloof  from  contact  with  Diana's  hus- 
band. Basil's  simplicity  of  manner  and  straightforwardness 
were  too  much  for  him.  And  while  an  unwilling  and  enor- 
mous respect  for  the  minister  grew  up  in  Captain  Knowlton's 
mind,  the  minister  on  his  part  saw  and  felt,  and  perhaps  ex- 
aggerated, the  attractiveness  of  the  young  army  officer.  Basil 
was  not  at  all  given  to  self-depreciation  ;  in  fact,  he  did  not 
think  of  himself  enough  for  such  a  mischievous  mental  trans- 
action ;  however  he  perceived  the  grace  of  figure  and  bear- 
ing, the  air  of  command  and  the  beauty  of  feature,  which  he 
thought  might  well  take  a  woman's  eye.  '  My  poor  Diana  ! ' 
he  said  to  himself  ;  'her  fancy  has  caught  the  stamp  of  all 
this — and  will  hold  it.  Naturally.  She  is  not  a  woman  to 
like  and  unlike.  What  chance  for  me  ! ' 

Which  meditations,  unwholesome  as  they  were,  did  not 
prevent  Basil's  attaching  himself  to  Captain  Knowlton's 
society,  and  making  a  friend  of  him,  in  spite  of  both  their 
selves,  as  it  were.  The  captain's  mental  nature,  he  suspected 
and  found,  was  by  no  means  in  order  to  correspond  with 
his  physical ;  and  if  a  friend  could  help  him,  he  would  be 
that  friend.  And  Basil  did  not  see  that  the  young  officer's 
evident  respect  for  himself  and  succumbing  to  his  friendly 
advances,  were  a.  very  significant  tribute  to  his  own  per- 
sonal and  other  qualities.  It  was  a  little  matter  to  him,  in- 
deed, such  tribute,  if  he  could  not  have  it  from  his  wife. 

He  had  everything  else  in  her  that  a  man's  heart  could 
desire  !  He  saw  that,  soon  after  her  return  from  Clifton. 
Diana's  demeanour  had  been  gracious  and  sweet  before,  al- 
ways, although  with  a  shadow  upon  it.  Now  the  shadow 
was  gone,  or  changed  ;  he  could  not  tell  which  ;  she  was 


BUDS   AND    BLOSSOMS.  413. 

not  gay-spirited  as  he  had  once  known  her  ;  but  she  wen 
about  her  house  with  a  gentle  grace  which  never  failed. 
Mrs.  Starling  was  at  times  exceedingly  trying  and  irritating. 
Diana  met  and  received  it  all  as  blandly  as  she  would  give 
her  face  to  the  west  wind ;  at  the  same  time  no  rough  wind 
could  move  her  from  the  way  of  her  duty.  Mrs.  Starling 
was  able  neither  to  provoke  her  nor  prevail  with  her.  She 
was  the  sweetest  of  ruling  spirits  within  her  house  ;  without 
it,  she  was  the  most  indefatigable  and  tender  of  fellow- 
workers  to  her  husband.  Tender,  not  to  him,  that  is,  but 
to  all  those  for  whom  he  and  she  ministered.  A  nurse  to 
the  sick,  a  provider  to  the  very  poor,  a  counsellor  to  the 
vexed ;  for  such  would  come  to  her,  especially  among  the 
younger  women  ;  a  comforter  to  those  in  trouble.  Such  a 
comforter !  "  Lips  of  healing  " — her  husband  said  of  her 
once  ; — "  wise,  rare  ;  sweet  as  honey,  but  with  the  savour 
of  the  wind  blowing  over  wild  thyme."  If  a  little  of  that 
sweetness  could  have  come  to  him  !  But  while  her  life  was 
full  of  observance  for  him,  gentle  and  submissive  as  a  child 
to  every  expressed  wish  of  his,  and  watchful  to  meet  his 
unexpressed  wish,  it  was  the  grief  of  Diana's  life  that  she 
did  not  love  this  man.  In  the  reserve  of  her  New  England 
nature,  I  think  what  she  felt  for  him  was  hidden  even  from 
herself. 

That  is,  I  mean,  as  days  and  months  went  on.  At 
Diana's  first  coming  home  from  Clifton,  no  doubt  her 
opinion  of  her  own  feelings,  and  Basil's  opinion  of  them, 
was  correct.  If  a  change  came,  it  came  so  imperceptibly 
that  nobody  knew  it. 

Diana's  beauty  at  this  time  had  taken  a  new  phasis.  It 
had  lost  the  marble  rigidity  and  calm  impassiveness  which 
had  characterized  it  during  all  the  time  of  her  married  life 
hitherto  ;  and  it  had  not  regained  the  careless  lightness  of 


4H  DIANA. 

the  days  before  she  knew  Evan.  It  was  something  lovelier 
than  either  ;  so  lovely  that  Basil  wondered,  and  Mrs.  Star- 
ling sometimes  stared,  and  every  lip  "  in  town  "  came  to 
have  nothing  but  utterances  of  respect,  more  often  utter- 
ances of  devotion,  for  the  minister's  wife.  I  am  afraid  I 
cannot  give  you  a  just  impression  of  it.  For  Diana's  face 
had  come  curiously  near  the  expression  on  the  face  of  her 
own  little  child.  Innocent,  tender,  pure,  something  like  that. 
Grave,  but  with  no  clouds  at  all ;  strong  and  purposeful, 
yet  with  an  utter  absence  of  self-will  or  self-conscious- 
ness. It  had  always  been  to  a  certain  degree,  innocent 
and  pure,  but  that  was  negative ;  and  this  was  positive, 
the  refined  gold  that  had  been  through  the  fire.  And  no 
baby's  face  is  sweeter  than  Diana's  was  now,  all  blossom- 
ing as  it  were  with  love  and  humility.  If  her  husband  had 
loved  her  before,  the  feeling  of  longing  and  despair  that 
came  over  him  when  he  looked  at  this  rarefied  beauty 
would  be  hard  to  tell.  He  had  ruined  her  life,  he  re- 
proached himself ;  and  she  was  lost  to  him  forever.  Yet, 
as  I  said,  though  Diana's  face  was  grave,  it  was  a  gravity 
wholly  without  clouds  ;  the  gravity  of  the  summer  dawn, 
when  the  stars  are  shining  and  the  light  in  the  East  tells 
of  the  coming  day. 

But  mental  changes  work  slowly  and  insensibly  oft- 
times  ;  and  day  after  day  and  week  after  week  went  by, 
each  with  its  fulness  of  business  and  cares ;  and  no  one  in 
the  little  family  knew  exactly  what  forces  were  silently 
busy.  So  a  year  rolled  round,  and  another  year  began  its 
course,  and  ran  it;  and  June  came  for  the  second  time 
since  Diana  had  returned  from  the  seaside.  Elmfield  in 
all  this  time  had  not  been  revisited  by  its  owners. 

June  had  come  again.  Windows  were  open,  and  the 
breath  of  roses  filled  the  minister's  study  ;  for  Diana  had 


BUDS   AND   BLOSSOMS.  41$ 

developed  lately  a  passion  for  flowers  and  for  gardening, 
and  her  husband  had  given  her  with  full  hands  all  she 
wanted,  and  much  more.  Mrs.  Starling  had  grumbled  and 
been  very  sarcastic  about  it ;  however,  Basil  had  ordered 
in  plants  and  seeds  and  tools  and  books  of  instruction  ; 
he  had  become  instructor  himself ;  and  the  result  was,  the 
parsonage,  as  people  began  to  call  it,  was  encompassed 
with  a  little  wilderness  of  floral  beauty  which  was  growing 
to  be  the  wonder  of  Pleasant  Valley.  "  It  will  do  them 
good  !  "  the  minister  said,  when  Diana  called  his  attention 
to  the  fact  that  the  country  farmers  passing  by  were  falling 
into  the  habit  of  reining  in  their  horses  and  stopping  for  a 
good  long  look.  For  instead  of  the  patch  of  marigolds 
and  hollyhocks  in  front  of  the  house,  all  the  wing  inhab- 
ited by  the  minister  and  his  family  was  surrounded  witfc 
flowers.  Roses  bloomed  in  the  beds  and  out  of  the  grass 
and  climbed  up  on  the  walls  of  the  house  ;  white  Annunci- 
ation lilies  shone  like  stars  here  and  there ;  whole  beds  of 
heliotrope  were  preparing  their  perfume  ;  geraniums  held 
up  their  elegant  heads  of  every  colour ;  verbenas  and 
mignonette  and  honeysuckle  and  red  lilies  and  yellow 
lilies,  and  hardy  gladiolus,  were  either  just  beginning  or  in 
full  beauty  ;  with  many  more,  too  many  to  tell ;  and  the  old- 
fashioned  guelder  rose  had  shaken  out  its  white  balls  of 
snow,  and  one  or  two  laburnums  were  hung  thick  with 
their  clusters  of  "  dropping  gold."  The  garden  was  grow- 
ing large,  and  as  I  said,  become  a  wilderness  of  beauty. 
Nevertheless  the  roses  kept  their  own,  and  this  afternoon 
the  breath  of  them  rising  above  all  the  other  sweet  breaths 
that  were  abroad,  came  in  and  filled  the  minister's  study. 
Diana  was  there  alone  sitting  by  one  of  the  open  windows, 
busy  with  some  work  ;  not  so  busy  but  that  she  smelt  the 
roses,  and  felt  the  glory  of  light  and  colour  that  was  outside, 


4l6  DIANA. 

and  heard  the  hum  of  bees  and  the  twitter  of  birds  and  the 
soft  indistinguishable  chirrup  of  insects,  which  filled  the 
air.  Diana  sewed  on,  till  another  slight  sound  mingled 
with  those ;  the  tread  of  a  foot  on  the  gravel  walk  down 
below ;  then  she  lifted  her  head  suddenly,  and  with  that  her 
hands  and  her  work  fell  into  her  lap.  It  was  long  past 
mid-afternoon,  and  the  lovely  slant  light  striking  over  the 
roses  and  coming  through  the  crown  of  a  young  elm,  fell 
upon  Basil,  who  was  slowly  sauntering  along  the  garden 
walk  with  his  little  girl  in  his  arms.  Very  slowly,  and  often 
standing  still  to  exchange  love  passages  and  indulge  mutual 
admiration  with  her.  They  were  partly  talking  of  the 
flowers,  Diana  could  see  ;  but  her  own  eyes  had  no  vision 
but"  for  those  two,  the  baby  and  the  baby's  father.  One 
little  fair  fat  arm  was  round  Basil's  neck  ;  the  other  tiny 
hand  was  sometimes  stretched  out  towards  the  lilies  or  the 
laburnums,  in  critical  or  delighted  notice-taking,  the  word- 
accompaniament  to  which  Diana  could  not  hear  but  could 
well  guess  ;  at  other  times  it  was  brought  round  ecstati- 
cally to  join  its  companion  round  her  father's  neck,  or 
lifted  to  his  face  with  ringers  of  caressing,  or  thrust  in 
among  the  locks  of  his  hair,  which  last  seemed  to  be  a 
favourite  pleasure.  Basil  would  stand  still  at  such  times 
and  talk  to  her,  or  wait,  Diana  knew  with  just  what  a  smile 
in  his  eyes,  to  take  the  soft  touches  and  return  them.  Di- 
ana's work  was  forgotten  and  her  eyes  were  rivetted  ;  why 
did  the  scene  in  the  garden  give  her  such  pain  ?  She  would 
have  said,  if  she  had  been  asked,  that  it  was  self-reproach 
and  sorrow  for  the  inevitable.  How  came  it,  that  she  held 
not  as  near  a  place  to  Basil  as  her  child  did  ?  she  ought ; 
but  it  was  not  so.  She  thought,  she  wished  she  loved  him ! 
She  ought  to  be  as  free  to  put  her  hand  on  the  soft  curls 
of  Basil's  hair  as  her  baby  was  ;  but  they  stood  too  far 


BUDS    AND    BLOSSOMS.    '  417 

apart  from  each  other,  and  she  would  as  soon  have  dared 
anything.  And  Basil  never  looked  at  her  so  now-a-days  ; 
he  had  found  out  how  she  felt,  and  knew  she  did  not 
care  for  his  looks ;  and  kind  and  gentle  and  unselfish 
as  he  was,  yes,  and  strong  in  self-command  and  self  re- 
nunciation, he  had  resigned  his  life-hope  and  left  her  to 
her  life-sorrow.  Yet  Diana  knew,  with  every  smile  and 
kiss  to  the  little  one  what  a  cry  of  Basil's  heart  went  out 
towards  the  child's  mother.  Only,  he  would  never  give 
that  cry  utterance  again.  '  What  can  I  do  ? '  thought 
Diana.  '  I  cannot  bear  it.  And  he  thinks  I  am  a  great 
deal  more  unhappy  than  I  am.  Unhappy  ?  I  am  not  un- 
happy— if  only  he  were  not  unhappy.' 

She  could  not  explain  her  feelings  to  herself,  she  had 
no  notion  that  she  was  jealous  of  her  own  child ;  but  the 
pain  bit  .her,  and  she  could  not  endure  to  sit  up  there  at  the 
window  and  look  on.  Rising  hastily,  she  dropped  her  work 
out  of  her  hand  and  was  about  to  go  down  into  the  garden 
to  join  them,  when  another  glance  shewed  her  that  Basil  had 
turned  and  was  coming  back  into  the  house.  Diana  lis- 
tened to  them  as  they  mounted  the  stairs,  Basil's  feet  and 
the  baby's  voice  sounding  together,  with  a  curious  unrest 
at  her  heart,  and  her  eyes  met  the  pair  eagerly  as  they 
entered  the  room.  From  what  impulse  she  could  not  have 
told,  she  advanced  to  meet  them  and  stretched  out  her 
hands  to  take  the  child  ;  which  however,  with  a  little  con- 
fident cry  of  delight  turned  from  her  and  clasped  both  little 
arms  again  round  her  father's  neck.  Basil  smiled  ;  Diana 
tried  to  follow  suit. 

'  She  would  rather  be  with  you  than  with  me,'  she  re- 
marked however. 

'  I  wonder  at  her  bad  taste  ! '  said  Basil.  But  he  turned 
his  face  to  the  baby  and  laid  it  gently  against  her  soft 
cheek. 

27 


41 8  DIANA. 

'It  is  because  you  are  stronger' — Diana  went  en. 

'  Is  it  ? ' 

'  That  is  one  thing.  You  may  notice,  children  always 
like  strong  arms.' 

'  Her  mother's  arms  are  not  weak.' 

'  No — but  I  am  not  so  strong  as  you,  Basil,  bodily  or 
mentally.  And  I  think  that  is  more  yet ; — mental  strength 
I  mean.  Children  recognize  that,  and  love  to  rest  on  it.' 

'You  do  not  think  such  discrimination  is  confined  to 
children  ? '  said  Basil,  with  a  dry,  quiet  humourousness  at 
which  Diana  could  not  help  smiling,  though  she  felt  quite 
as  much  like  a  very  different  demonstration.  She  watched 
the  two,  as  Basil  walked  on  to  his  study  table  and  sat 
down,  with  the  child  on  his  knee  ;  she  saw  the  upturned 
eye  of  love  with  which  the  little  one  regarded  him  as  he 
did  this,  and  then  how  with  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction  she 
settled  herself  in  her  place,  smoothed  down  her  frock,  and 
laid  the  little  hands  contentedly  together  in  her  lap.  Basil 
drew  his  portfolio  towards  him  and  began  to  write  a  letter. 
Diana  went  to  her  work  again  in  the  window,  feeling  rest- 
less. She  felt  she  must  say  something  more,  and  in  a  dif- 
ferent key,  and  as  she  worked  she  watched  the  two  at  the 
table.  This  was  not  the  way  things  ought  to  be.  Her  hus- 
band must  be  told  at  least  something  of  the  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  her  ;  he  ought  to  know  that  she  was  no 
longer  miserable  ;  he  would  be  glad  to  know  that.  Diana 
thought  he  might  have  seen  it  without  her  telling  ;  but  if  he 
did  not,  then  she  must  speak.  He  had  a  right  to  so  much 
comfort  as  she  could  give  him  ;  and  he  ought  to  be  told 
that  she  was  not  now  wishing  to  be  in  another  presence 
and  society  than  his.  If  she  could  tell  him  without  his 
thinking  too  much — She  watched  till  the  letter  was  written 
and  he  was  folding  it  up.  And  then  Diana's  tongue  hesi- 
tated unaccountably. 


BUDS    AND    BLOSSOMS.  419 

'  Basil,'  she  began,  obliging  herself  to  speak, — '  I  can 
smell  the  roses  again.' 

He  looked  up  instantly  with  keen  ^ycs. 

'You  know, — there  was  a  long  while — a  long  while, — 
in  which  I  could  not  feel  that  anything  was  sweet.' 

'  And  now  ? ' — 

'  Now  I  can.  I  knew  you  ought  to  know.  You  would 
be  glad.  I  am  like  a  person  who  has  been  in  a  brain  fever 
— or  dead — and  awaked  to  life  and  soundness  again.  You 
cannot  think  what  it  is  to  me,  to  see  the  sky.'  Diana's 
eyes  filled. 

'  What  did  you  use  to  see  ? ' 

'The  vault  of  my  prison.  What  signified  whether  it 
were  blue  or  brazen  ?  But  now — ' 

'Well?— 'Now,'  Diana?' 

'  I  can  see  through.' 

Perhaps  this  was  not  very  intelligible,  for  manifestly  it 
was  not  easy  for  Diana  to  explain  •  herself ;  but  Basil  this 
time  did  not  speak,  and  she  presently  began  again. 

'  I  mean, — there  is  no  prison  vault,  nor  any  prison  any 
more ;  the  walls  that  seemed  to  shut  me  in  are  dissolved, 
and  I  am  free  again.' 

'  And  you  can  see  through  ? — '  Basil  repeated. 

'  Yes.  Where  my  eyes  were  met  by  something  harder 
than  fate, — it  is  all  broken  up,  and  light,  and  clear,  and  I 
can  see  through.' 

'  I  never  used  to  think  you  were  a  fanciful  woman,'  said 
the  minister,  eyeing  her  intently ;  '  but  this  time  I  do  not 
quite  follow  you,  Di.  I  am  afraid  to  take  your  words  for 
all  they  may  mean.' 

'  But  you  may.' 

'What  may  I?' 

'  They  mean  all  I  say.' 


42O  DIANA. 

'  I  am  sure  of  that,'  said  he  smiling,  though  he  looked 
anxious  ;  '  but  you  see,  there  is  the  very  point  of  my  diffi- 
culty.' 

'  I  mean,  Basil,  that  I  am  out  of  my  bondage, — which  I 
thought  never  could  be  broken  in  this  world.' 

'  Out  of  what  bondage,  my  love  ? ' 

Diana  paused. 

'  When  I  went  down  to  Clifton,  to  Mrs.  Sutphen's,  do 
you  know,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but — Evan  Knowlton  ? ' 

Diana's  colour  stirred,  but  she  looked  her  husband 
steadily  in  the  face. 

'  I  suspected  it.' 

'  For  a  long  time  I  could  not,  Basil.  Night  and  day,  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  Wasn't  that  bondage  ? ' 

'  Depends  on  how  you  take  it,'  said  the  minister. 

'  But  it  was  wrong,  Basil.' 

'I  found  excuses  for  you,  Diana.' 

'  Did  you  ? '  she  said  humbly.  '  I  dare  say  you  did.  It 
is  like  you.  But  it  was  wrong,  and  I  knew  it  was  wrong, 
and  I  could  not  help  it.  Is  not  that  bondage,  of  the  worst 
sort?  O  you  don't  know,  Basil!  you  never  knew  such  a 
fight  between  wrong  and  right ;  between  your  wish  and  your 
will.  But  for  a  long  time  I  did  not  see  that  it  was  wrong ; 
I  thought  it  was  of  necessity.' 

'  How  came  your  view  to  change  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  All  of  a  sudden.  Something  Mrs.  Sut- 
phen  said  one  morning  started  my  thoughts,  and  I  saw  at 
once  that  I  was  doing  very  wrong.  Still  it  seemed  as  if  I 
could  not  help  it.' 

'  How  did  you  help  it  ? ' 

'  /didn't,  Basil.  I  fought  and  fought — O  what  a  fight! 
It  seemed  like  death,  and  worse,  to  give  up  Evan  ;  and  to 
stop  thinking  of  him,  meant,  to  give  him  up.  I  could  not 


BUDS   AND    BLOSSOMS.  421 

gain  the  victory.  But  don't  you  remember  telling  me,  often, 
that  Christ  would  do  everything  for  me  if  I  would  trust 
him  ? ' 

<  Yes.' 

'  Basil,  he  did.  It  wasn't  I.  At  last  I  got  utterly 
desperate,  and  I  threw  myself  at  his  feet  and  claimed  the 
promise.  I  was  as  helpless  as  I  could  be.  And  then  Ba- 
sil, presently, — I  cannot  tell  how, — the  work  was  done. 
The  battle  was  fought  and  the  victory  was  won,  and  I  was 
free.  And  ever  since  I  have  been  singing  songs  in  my 
heart.' 

Basil  did  not  flush  with  pleasure.  Diana  thought  he 
grew  pale  rather  ;  but  he  bowed  his  head  upon  the  head  of 
the  little  one  on  his  lap  with  a  deep  low  utterance  of 
thanksgiving.  She  thought  he  would  have  shewn  his  pleas- 
ure differently.  She  did  not  know  how  to  go  on. 

'  It  was  not  I,  Basil — '  she  said  after  a  pause. 

'  It  never  is  I,  or  you,'  answered  the  minister  without 
looking  up.  '  It  is  always  Christ,  if  anything  is  done.' 

'  Since  then,  you  see,  I  have  felt  like  a  freedwoman.' 

'  Which  you  are.' 

'  And  then  you  cannot  think  what  it  was  to  me,  and 
what  it  is,  to  smell  the  roses  again.  There  were  not  many 
roses  about  Clifton  at  that  time,  in  September ;  but  it 
was  the  bay  and  the  shores  and  the  vessels  and  the  sky.  I 
seemed  to  have  got  new  eyes,  and  everything  was  so  beau- 
tiful.' 

Basil  repeated  his  ejaculation  of  thanksgiving,  but  he 
said  nothing  more  ;  and  Diana  felt  somehow  disappointed. 
Did  he  not  understand  that  she  was  free  ?  He  bowed  his 
head  close  down  upon  the  head  of  his  little  daughter  and 
was  silent.' 

'  I  knew  you  ought  to  know — '  Diana  repeated. 


422  DIANA. 

'  Thank  you — '  he  said. 

'  And  yet  I  couldn't  tell  you — though  I  knew  you  would 
be  so  glad  for  me  and  with  me.' 

'  I  am  unutterably  glad  for  you.' 

And  not  with  me  ?  she  said  to  herself.  Why  not  ?  Isn't 
it  enough,  if  I  don't  love  anybody  else  ?  if  I  give  him  all  I 
have  to  give  ?  even  though  that  be  not  what  he  gives  to 
me.  I  wish  Basil  would  be  reasonable. 

It  was  certainly  the  first  time  it  had  ever  occurred  to 
her  to  make  him  the  subject  of  such  a  wish.  But  Diana 
did  not  speak  out  her  thought,  and  of  course  her  husband 
did  not  answer  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

DAIRY    AND    PARISH    WORK. 

ACCORDING  to  her  custom,  Diana  was  up  early  the 
next  morning,  and  down  in  her  dairy  while  yet  the  sun 
was  only  just  getting  above  the  horizon.  The  dairy  win- 
dow stood  open  night  and  day;  and  the  cool  dewy  freshness 
which  was  upon  the  roses  and  lilies  outside  was  in  there 
too  among  the  pans  of  cream  ;  the  fragrance  of  those 
mingled  with  the  different  but  very  pure  sweetness  of  these. 
Diana  was  skimming  pan  after  pan ;  the  thick  yellow 
cream  wrinkled  up  in  rich  folds  under  her  skimmer  ;  the 
skimming  shelf  was  just  before  the  window,  and  outside 
of  the  window  were  the  roses  and  honeysuckles.  Diana's 
sleeves  were  rolled  up  above  her  elbows  ;  her  hands  were 
disposing  of  their  business  with  quick  skill ;  yet  now  and 
then,  even  with  a  pan  under  her  hand,  she  paused,  leaned 
on  the  window  sill  and  looked  out  into  the  garden.  She 
felt  glad  about  something,  and  yet  an  unsatisfied  query 
was  in  her  heart ;  she  was  glad  that  she  had  at  last  told 
her  husband  how  the  spell  was  broken  that  had  bound  her 
to  Evan  and  kept  her  apart  from  himself.  '  But  he  did  not 
seem  so  glad  as  I  expected  ! '  Then  she  recalled  the  deep 
tone  of  his  thanksgiving  for  her,  and  Diana's  eyes  took  a 
yearning  look  which  certainly  saw  no  roses.  '  It  was  all 
for  me  ;  it  was  not  for  his  own  share  ;  he  did  not  think  he 
had  any  share  in  it.  He  has  a  notion  that  I  hate  him  ; 

423 


424  DIANA. 

and  I  do  not ;  I  never  did.'  It  occurred  to  her  here  dimly 
that  she  had  once  felt  a  horror  of  him  ;  and  who  would  not 
rather  have  hatred  than  horror  ?  She  went  on  skimming 
her  cream.  What  should  she  do  ?  'I  cannot  speak  about 
it  again,'  she  said  to  herself ;  '  I  cannot  say  any  more  to 
him.  I  cannot  say — I  don't  know  what  I  ought  to  say! 
but  I  wish  he  knew  that  I  do  not  dislike  him.  He  is  keen 
enough  ;  surely  he  will  find  it  out.' 

Pan  after  pan  was  set  aside  ;  the  churn  was  filled  ;  and 
Diana  began  to  churn.  Presently  in  came  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  Hain't  Josh  brought  the  milk  yet  ? ' 

1  Not  yet.' 

'  It's  time  he  did.  That  fellow's  got  a  lazy  streak  in 
him  somewhere.' 

'  It's  only  just  half-past  five,  mother.' 

'  The  butter  ought  to  be  come  by  now,  I  should  think. — ' 
Mrs.  Starling  was  passing  in  and  out,  setting  the  table  in  the 
lean-to  kitchen.  She  would  have  no  '  help  '  in  her  domin- 
ions, so  it  was  only  in  Diana's  part  of  the  house  that  the 
little  servant  officiated,  whom  Basil  insisted  upon  keeping 
for  his  wife's  ease  and  comfort  and  leisure.  Diana  herself 
attended  as  of  old  to  her  particular  sphere,  the  dairy. 
'  How  do  you  know  it's  just  half-past  five  ? '  her  mother 
went  on  presently. 

'  I  looked.' 

'  Watches  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Starling  with  much  disgust. 
'Your  husband  is  ridiculous  about  you.' 

But  Diana  could  bear  that. 

'  In  your  dairy,  is  a  queer  place  to  wear  a  watch.' 

'  Why  mother,  it's  for  use,  not  for  show.' 

'  Make  me  believe  that !  There's  a  good  deal  of  show 
about  it  anyhow,  with  such  a  chain  hanging  to  it.' 

'  My  husband  gave  it  to  me,  you  know,  chain  and  all ; 


DAIRY   AND   PARISH   WORK.  425 

I  must  wear  it,'  Diana  said  with  a  face  as  sweet  as  the 
roses. 

'  Oh  yes  !  your  husband  ! '  Mrs.  Starling  answered  in- 
sultingly. '  That  will  do  to  say  to  other  people.  Much  you 
care  what  your  husband  does  ! ' 

Diana  got  up  here,  left  her  churn,  came  up  to  her  mother 
and  put  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  The  action  and  air  of  the 
woman  were  so  commanding,  that  even  Mrs.  Starling  stood 
still  with  a  certain  involuntary  deference.  Diana's  face  and 
voice  however  were  as  clear  and  calm  as  they  were  com- 
manding. 

'  Mother,' — she  said, — '  you  are  mistaken.  I  care  with 
all  there  is  of  me ;  heart  and  soul  and  life.' 

Mrs.  Starling's  eye  shrank  away.  '  Since  when  ? '  she 
asked  incredulously. 

'  It  does  not  matter  since  when.  Whatever  I  have  ever 
felt  for  other  people,  there  is  only  one  person  in  the  world 
that  I  care  for  now  ;  and  that  is,  my  husband.' 

'You'd  better  tell  him  so,'  sneered  Mrs.  Starling. 
'  When  do  you  expect  your  butter  is  going  to  come,  if  you 
stand  there  ? ' 

'The  butter  is  come,'  said  Diana  gently.  She  knew  the 
sneer  was  meant  to  cover  uneasy  feeling  ;  and  if  it  had  not, 
still  she  would  not  have  resented  it.  She  never  resented 
anything  now  that  was  done  to  herself.  In  came  Josh  with 
the  foaming  pails.  Diana's  hands  were  in  the  butter  and 
her  mother  came  to  strain  the  milk. 

'  There  had  ought  to  be  three  quarts  more,  that  ain't 
here,'  she  grumbled. 

'  They  ain't  nowheres  else  then,'  answered  her  facto- 
tum. 

'  Josh,  you  don't  strip  the  cows  clean.' 

'Who  doos,  then  ?'  said  Josh  grinning.     'If  'tain't  me, 


426  DIANA. 

I  don'  know  who  'tis.  That  'ere  red  heifer  is  losin'  on  her 
milk,  though,  Mis'  Starlin'.  She  had  ought  to  be  fed  sun'- 
thinV 

'  Well,  feed  her  then,'  cried  the  mistress.  '  You  know 
enough  for  that.  You  must  keep  up  the  milk  this  month, 
Josh  ;  the  grass  is  first-rate.' 

Diana  escaped  away. 

A  while  later  the  family  was  assembled  at  breakfast. 

'  Where's  the  child  ? '  inquired  Mrs.  Starling. 

'  I  believe  she  is  out  in  the  garden,  mother.' 

'  She  oughtn't  to  be  out  before  she  has  had  her  break- 
fast. 'Tain't  good  for  her.' 

'  O  she  has  had  her  breakfast,'  said  Diana.  This  was 
nothing  new.  Diana  as  well  as  her  husband  was  glad  to 
keep  the  little  one  from  Mrs.  Starling's  table,  where  unless 
they  wanted  her  to  be  fed  on  pork  and  pickles  and  the  like, 
it  was  difficult  to  have  a  harmonious  meal.  It  was  often 
difficult  at  any  rate  ! 

'  Who's  with  her  ? '  Mrs.  Starling  went  on. 

'  Her  father  was  with  her.  Now  Prudence  is  looking 
after  her.' 

'  Prudence !  You  want  to  keep  a  girl  about  as  much  as 
I  want  to  keep  a  boat.  You  have  no  use  for  her.' 

'  She  is  useful  just  now,'  put  in  the  dominie. 

*  Why  can't  Diana  take  care  of  her  own  child,  and  feed 
her  when  she  takes  her  own  meals  ? — as  I  used  to  do,  and 
as  everybody  else  does.' 

'  You  think  that  is  a  convenient  arrangement  for  all 
parties? '  said  the  minister. 

'  I  hate  to  have  danglers  about ! '  said  Mrs.  Starling. 
'  If  there's  anything  I  abominate,  it's  shiftlessness.  I  al- 
ways found  my  ten  fingers  was  servants  enough  for  me ; 
and  what  they  couldn't  do,  I  could  go  without.  And  I 


DAIRY   AND    PARISH    WORK.  42/ 

don't  like  to  see  a  daughter  o'  mine  sit  with  her  hands  be- 
fore her  and  livin'  off  other  people's  strength  ! ' 

Diana  laughed,  a  low,  sweet  laugh,  that  was  enough  to 
smooth  away  the  wrinkles  out  of  anybody's  mood. 

'  She  has  to  do  as  she's  told/  said  the  minister  senten- 
tiously. 

1  That's  because  she's  a  fool.' 

'Do  you  think  so?'  Basil  answered  with  unchanged 
good  humour. 

'  /never  took  my  lessons  from  anybody.' 

'  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  had.' 

'  And  you  are  spoiling  her,'  Mrs.  Starling  added  incon- 
sistently. 

'  I  wonder  you  haven't.' 

Mrs.  Starling  paused  to  consider  what  the  minister 
meant.  Before  she  came  to  speech  again,  he  rose  from  the 
table. 

'  Will  you  come  to  my  study,  Diana,  after  breakfast  ? ' 

'  Who's  goin'  to  make  my  cake  then  ? '  cried  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  '  Society's  to  meet  here  again  this  after- 
noon.' 

'  I'll  make  it  mother — a  Mountain  cake,  if  you  like,' 
said  Diana,  also  rising.  '  Basil  wont  want  me  all  the  morn- 
ing.' But  she  was  eager  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say  to 
her,  and  hurried  after  him.  He  had  seemed  to  her  more 
than  usually  preoccupied. 

'  I  do  think,'  she  remarked  as  she  reached  the  study, 
'  the  Society  eat  more  cake  than — their  work  is  worth.' 

'  Heresy — '  said  Basil  smiling. 

'  They  don't  do  much  sewing,  Basil.' 

'  They  do  something  else.  Never  mind  ;  let  them  come 
and  have  a  good  time.  It  won't  hurt  anybody  much.' 

Diana  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and  then  waited  anx- 


428  DIANA. 

iously.  She  longed  for  some  words  from  Basil  different 
from  those  he  had  spoken  last  night.  Could  he  not  see, 
that  if  her  passion  for  Evan  was  broken,  there  was  nothing 
left  for  him  to  look  grave  about  ?  And  ought  he  not  to  be 
jubilant  over  the  confession  she  had  just  made  to  her 
mother  ?  Diana  was  jubilant  over  it  herself  ;  she  had  set 
that  matter  clear  at  last.  It  is  true,  Basil  had  not  heard 
the  confession,  but  ought  he  not  to  divine  it,  when  it  was 
the  truth  ?  '  If  I  do  not  just  love  him,'  said  Diana  to  her- 
self, '  at  least  he  is  the  only  one  I  care  for  in  all  the  world. 
That  would  have  made  him  glad  once.  And  he  don't  look 
glad.  Does  he  expect  me  to  speak  out  and  tell  him  all 
that  ? ' 

Basil  did  not  look  as  if  he  expected  her  to  do  any  such 
thing.  He  was  rather  graver  than  usual,  and  did  not  at  once 
say  anything.  Through  the  open  window  came  the  air 
still  damp  with  dew,  laden  with  the  scent  of  honeysuckle 
and  roses,  jocund  with  the  shouts  of  birds  ;  and  for  one 
instant  Diana's  thoughts  swept  back  away  to  years  ago, 
with  a  wondering  recognition  of  the  change  in  herself  since 
those  June  days.  Then  her  husband  began  to  speak. 

'  I  have  had  a  call,  Diana.' 

'  A  call  ?  You  have  a  good  many  of  them  always,  Basil. 
What  was  this  ? ' 

'  Of  a  different  sort.  A  call  for  me — not  a  call  upon 
me.' 

'  Well,  there  have  always  been  calls  for  you  too,  in 
plenty,  ever  since  I  have  known  you.  What  do  you 
mean  ? ' 

'  This  is  a  call  to  me,  to  leave  Pleasant  Valley,'  said 
Basil,  watching  her,  yet  without  seeming  to  do  so.  Diana 
looked  bewildered. 

'  Ta  leave  Pleasant  Valley  ?  Why  ?  And  where  would 
you  go,  Basil  ? ' 


DAIRY    AND    PARISH    WORK.  429 

{ I  am  called,  because  the  people  want  somebody  and 
have  pitched  upon  me.  The  place  is  a  manufacturing 
town,  not  very  far  from  Boston.' 

'  Are  you  going  ? ' 

'  That  is  the  point  upon  which  I  desire  to  have  your 
opinion.' 

'But,  Basil,  the  people  here  want  you  too.' 

'Grant  that.' 

'  Then  what  does  it  signify,  whether  other  people  want 
you  ? ' 

'In  so  much,  as  the  'other  people'  are  more  in  num- 
bers and  far^more  needy  in  condition.' 

'  Want  you  more — '  said  Diana  wistfully. 

'  That  is  the  plain  English  of  it.' 

'  And  will  you  go  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  counsel  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  know  the  people — '  said  Diana  breathless. 

'  Nor  I,  as  yet.  The  church  that  calls  me,  is  itself  a 
rich  little  church  which  has  been  accustomed,  I  am  afraid, 
for  some  time,  to  a  dead  level  in  religion.' 

'  They  must  want  you  then,  badly,'  said  Diana.  '  That 
was  how  Pleasant  Valley  was,  five  years  ago.' 

'  But  round  the  church  lies  on  every  hand  the  mill 
population,  for  whom  hardly  any  one  cares.  They  need 
not  one  man,  but  many.  Nothing  is  done  for  them. 
They  are  almost  heathen,  in  the  midst  of  a  land  called 
Christian.' 

'  Then  you  will  go  ? '  said  Diana,  looking,  at  Mr.  Mas- 
ters and  wishing  that  he  would  speak  to  her  with  a  different 
expression  of  face.  It  was  calm,  sweet  and  high,  as  al- 
ways ;  but  she  knew  he  thought  his  wife  was  lost  to  him 
for  ever.  '  And  yet,  I  told  him,  last  night ! '  she  said  to 
herself.  Really,  she  was  thinking  more  of  that  than  of  this 
other  subject  Basil  had  unfolded  to  her. 


430  DIANA. 

'  I  do  not  know,'  he  answered.  '  How  would  you  like 
to  run  over  there  with  me  and  take  a  look  at  the  place  ? 
I  have  a  very  friendly  invitation  to  come  and  bring  you, 
— for  the  very  purpose.' 

'  Run  over  ?  Why  it  must  be  more  than  one  day's 
journey? ' 

'  One  runs  by  railway,'  said  Basil  simply.  '  What  do 
you  think  ?  Will  you  go  ? ' 

'  O  yes,  indeed  !  if  you  will  let  me.     And  Rosy  ? ' 

'  We  will  go  nowhere  without  Rosy.' 

Diana  made  her  cake  like  one  in  a  dream. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


THE  journey  to  Mainbridge,  the  manufacturing  town  in 
question,  took  place  within  a  few  days.  With  eager  cordial- 
ity the  minister  and  his  family  were  welcomed  in  the  house 
of  one  of  the  chief  men  of  the  church  and  of  the  place,  and 
made  very  much  at  home.  It  was  a  phasis  of  social  life  which 
Diana  had  hardly  touched  ever  before.  Wealth  was  abound- 
ing and  superaboun-ding ;  the  house  was  large,  the  luxury 
of  furnishing  and  fitting,  of  service  and  equipage,  was  on 
a  scale  she  had  never  seen.  Basil  was  amused  to  observe 
that  she  did  not  seem  to  see  it  now  ;  she  took  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  and  fitted  in  these  new  surroundings  as 
though  her  life  had  been  lived  in  them.  The  dress  of  the 
minister's  wife  was  very  plain,  certainly ;  her  muslins  were 
not  costly,  and  they  were  simply  made ;  yet  nobody  in  the 
room  looked  so  much  dressed  as  she.  It  was  the  dignity 
of  her  beauty  that  so  attired  her ;  it  was  beauty  of  mind 
and  body  both  ;  and  both  made  the  grace  of  her  movements 
and  the  grace  of  her  quiet  so  exquisite  as  it  was.  Basil 
smiled — and  sighed. 

But  there  was  no  doubt  Diana  saw  the  mill  people. 
The  minister  and  his  wife  were  taken  to  see  the  mills,  of 
course,  divers  and  various.  Silk  mills,  cotton  mills,  iron 
mills.  The  machinery,  and  the  work  done  by  it,  were  fas- 
cinating to  Diana  and  delightful ;  the  mill  people,  men, 
women  and  children,  were  more  fascinating  by  far,  though 

431 


432  DIANA. 

in  a  far  different  way.  She  watched  them  in  the  mills,  she 
watched  them  when  she  met  them  in  the  street,  going  to  or 
from  work. 

'  Do  they  go  to  church  ? '  she  asked  once  of  Mr.  Brandt, 
their  entertainer.  He  shook  his  head. 

'  They  are  tired  with  their  week's  work  when  Saturday 
night  comes,  and  want  to  rest.  Sunday  was  given  for  rest,' 
he  said,  looking  into  Diana's  face,  which  was  a  study  to 
him. 

'  Don't  you  think,'  she  said,  '  rest  of  body  is  a  poor 
thing  without  rest  of  mind  ? ' 

'  My  mind  cannot  rest  unless  my  body  does,'  he  answered 
laughing. 

'  Take  it  the  other  way — don't  you  know  what  it  is  to 
have  rest  of  mind  make  you  forget  weariness  of  body  ? ' 

'  No — nor  you  either,'  said  he. 

'  Then  I  am  sorry  for  you ;  and  I  wish  I  could  get  at 
the  mill  people.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'  To  tell  them  what  I  know  about  it.' 

'  But  you  could  not  get  at  them.  Airs.  Masters.  They 
are  in  the  mills  from  seven  till  seven — or  eight ;  and  come 
out  tired  and  dirty  ;  and  Sunday,  as  I  told  you,  they  like 
to  stay  at  home  and  rest  and  perhaps  clean  up.' 

'  If  there  is  no  help  for  that,'  said  Diana,  '  there  ought 
to  be  no  mills.' 

'  And  no  manufacturers  ? ' 

*  What  are  silk  and  iron,  to  the  bodies  and  souls  of 
men  ?  Basil,  does  that  passage  in  the  Revelation  mean 
that  ? ' 

'  What  passage  ? '  said  Mr.  Brandt.  '  Here  is  a  Bible, 
Mrs.  Masters  ;  perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  find  the 
place.  I  am  afraid  from  your  expression,  it  is  not  a  flatter- 


BABYLON.  433 

ing  passage  for  us  mill-owners.     What  are  the  words  you 
refer  to  ? ' 

I  think  he  wanted  to  draw  out  Diana  much  more  than 
the  meaning  of  Scripture.  She  took  the  Bible  a  little 
doubtfully  and  glanced  at  Basil.  He  was  smiling  at  her 
in  a  reassuring  way,  but  did  not  at  all  offer  to  help.  Di- 
ana's thoughts  wandered  somewhat  and  she  turned  the 
leaves  of  the  Bible  unsuccessfully.  '  Where  is  it,  Basil  ? ' 

'  You  are  thinking  of  the  account  of  the  destruction  of 
Babylon.  It  is  in  the  eighteenth  chapter.' 

'  But  Babylon  ! '  said  the  host.  '  We  have  nothing  to 
do  with  Babylon.  That  means  Rome,  doesn't  it  ? ' 

'  Here's  the  chapter,'  said  Diana.  '  No,  it  cannot  mean 
Rome,  Mr.  Brandt ;  though  Dean  Stanley  seems  to  assume 
that  it  does,  in  spite  of  the  fact  which  he  naively  points 
out,  that  the  description  don't  fit.' 

'What  then?' 

'  Basil,  won't  you  explain  ? ' 

'  It  is  merely  an  assumption  of  old  Testament  imagery,' 
said  Basil.  'At  a  time  when  lineal  Israel  stood  for  the 
church  of  God  upon  earth,  Babylon  represented  the  head 
and  culmination  of  the  world  power,  the  church's  deadly 
opponent  and  foe.  Babylon  in  the  Apocalypse  but  means 
that  of  which  Nebuchadnezzar's  old  Babylon  was  the  type.' 

'  And  what  is  that  ? ' 

'  The  power  of  this  world,  of  which  Satan  is  said  to  be 
the  prince.' 

'  But  what  do  you  mean  by  the  world,  Mr.  Masters  ? 
We  cannot  get  out  of  the  world — it  is  a  pretty  good  world 
too,  I  think,  take  it  for  all  in  all.  People  talk  of  being 
worldly  and  not  worldly ; — but  they  do  not  know  what  they 
are  talking  about.' 

'  Why  not  ? '  Diana  asked. 

28 


434  DIANA. 

'  Well  now,  ask  my  wife,'  Mr.  Brandt  answered  laughing. 
'  She  thinks  it  is  "  worldly  "  to  have  a  cockade  on  your 
coachman's  hat ;  it  is  not  worldly  to  have  the  coachman,  or 
the  carriage,  and  she  don't  object  to  a  coat  with  buttons. 
Then  it  is  not  worldly  to  give  a  party, — but  it  is  worldly  to 
dance ;  it  is  very  worldly  to  play  cards.  There's  hair-split- 
ting somewhere,  and  my  eyes  are  not  sharp  enough  to  see 
the  lines.' 

Diana  sat  with  her  book  in  her  hand,  looking  up  at  the 
speaker  ;  a  look  so  fair  and  clear  and  grave  that  Mr.  Brandt 
was  again  moved  by  curiosity  and  tempted  to  try  to  make 
her  speak. 

'  Can  you  make  it  out  ? '  he  said  smiling. 

'  Why  yes  ! '  said  Diana ;  '  but  there  is  no  hair-splitting. 
It  is  very  simple.  There  are  just  two  kingdoms  in  the 
world,  Mr.  Brandt;  and  whatever  does  not  belong  to  the 
one,  belongs  to  the  other.  Whatever  is  not  for  God,  is  for 
the  world.' 

'  Then  your  definition  of  the  "world  "  is — ? ' 

'  All  that  is  not  God's.' 

'  But  I  am  not  clear  yet.  I  don't  see  how  you  draw 
the  line.  •  Take  my  mills,  for  example  ;  they  belong  to  this 
profane,  work-a-day  world ;  yet  I  must  run  them.  Is  that 
worldly  ? ' 

'  Yes,  if  you  do  not  run  them  for  God.' 

Mr.  Brandt  stared  a  little. 

'  I  confess,  I  do  not  see  how  that  is  to  be  done,'  he 
owned. 

'The  business  that  you  cannot  do  for  God,  you  had 
better  not  do  at  all,'  said  Diana  gently. 

'  But  spinning  cotton  ? — ' 

'  Spinning  cotton,  or  anything  else  that  employs  men 
and  makes  money.' 


BABYLON.  435 

'How?' 

'  You  can  do  it  for  God,  cannot  you  ? '  said  Diana  in 
the  same  way.  '  You  can  employ  the  men  and  make  the 
money  for  his  sake,  and  in  his  service.' 

'But  that  is  coming  pretty  close,'  said  the  mill-owner. 
'  Suppose  I  want  a  little  of  the  money  for  myself  and  my 
family  ? ' 

'  I  am  speaking  too  much  ! '  said  Diana  with  a  lovely 
flush  on  her  cheek  and  looking  up  to  "her  husband.  '  I  wish 
you  would  take  the  word,  Basil.' 

'  I  hope  Mr.  Masters  is  going  to  be  a  little  more  mer- 
ciful to  the  weaknesses  of  ordinary  humanity,'  said  Mr. 
Brandt,  half  lightly.  '  So  tremendous  a  preacher  have  I 
never  heard  yet.' 

Basil  was  silent,  and  Diana  looked  down  at  the  volume 
in  her  hand. 

'Won't  you  go  on  Mrs.  Masters?'  said  her  host. 
'  What  do  you  find  for  me  there  ? ' 

'  I  was  looking  for  my  quotation,'  said  Diana ;  '  I  had 
not  got  it  quite  right.' 

'How  is  it?' 

'  Here  is  a  list  of  the  luxuries  in  which  Babylon  traded 
— "  The  merchandise  of  gold,  and  silver,  and  precious 
stones,  and  of  pearls,  and  fine  linen,  and  purple,  and  silk 
and  scarlet,  and  all  thyine  wood,  and  all  manner  vessels  of 
ivory,  and  all  manner  vessels  of  most  precious  wood,  and 
of  brass,  and  iron,  and  marble,  and  cinnamon,  and  odours, 
and  ointments,  and  frankincense,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and 
fine  flour,  and  wheat,  and  beasts,  and  sheep,  and  horses, 
and  chariots,  and  slaves,  and  souls  of  men." 

'Sounds  for  all  the  world  like  an  inventory  of  the 
things  in  my  house,'  said  Mr.  Brandt.  '  Pray  what  of  all 
that  ?  Don't  you  like  all  those  things  ? ' 


436  DIANA. 

'  "  —  For  in  one  hour  so  great  riches  is  come  to  nought." ' 

'  But  what  harm  iri  these  things,  or  most  of  them,  Mrs. 
Masters  ? ' 

Diana  glanced  up  at  Basil  and  did  not  answer.  He 
answered. 

'  No  harm — so  long  as  business  and  the  fruits  of  busi- 
ness are  kept  within  the  line  we  were  speaking  of ;  so  long 
as  all  is  for  God  and  to  God.  If  it  is  not  for  him,  it  is  for 
the  "  world." ' 

'  O  my  dear  Mrs.  Masters ! '  cried  Mrs.  Brandt  running 
in, — '  here  you  are.  I  was  looking  for  you. — I  came  to  ask 
— shall  I  order  the  landau  for  five  o'clock,  to  drive  to  the 
lake  ? ' 

Diana  was  glad  to  have  the  conversation  broken  up. 
When  the  hour  for  the  drive  came,  and  she  sank  into  the 
luxurious,  satiny  depths  of  the  landau,  her  thoughts  invol- 
untarily recurred  to  it.  The  carriage  was  so  very  comfort- 
able !  It  rolled  smoothly  along,  over  good  roads,  drawn 
by  well-trotting  horses  ;  the  motion  was  delightful.  Diana's 
thoughts  rolled  on  too.  Suddenly  Mr.  Brandt  leaned  over 
towards  her. 

'  Is  this  carriage  a  "worldly"  indulgence,  Mrs.  Masters?' 

Diana  started.     '  I  don't  know,'  she  said. 

'  Ah,'  said  the  other  laughing  at  her  startled  face, — '  I 
am  glad  to  see  that  even  you  may  have  a  doubt  on  that 
subject.  You  cannot  blame  less  etherealized  persons,  like 
my  wife  and  me,  if  we  go  on  contentedly,  with  no  doubts.' 

'  But  you  mistake  me,' — said  Diana. 

'You  said,  you  did  not  know.' 

'  Because  I  don't  know  you.' 

'  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ? ' 

'If  I  knew  you  well,  Mr.  Brandt,  I  should  knovtf 
whether  this  carriage  is  the  Lord's  or  not.' 


BABYLON.  437 

The  expression  of  the  gentleman's  face  upon  this  was 
hardly  agreeable  ;  he  sat  back  in  his  seat  and  looked  at 
the  prospect ;  and  so  Diana  tried  to  do,  but  for  a  time  the 
landscape  to  her  was  indistinguishable.  Her  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  mills  and  the  mill  people,  pale,  apathetic, 
reserved,  sometimes  stern,  they  had  struck  her  painfully  as 
a  set  of  people  who  did  not  own  kindred  with  other  classes 
of  their  fellow  creatures  ;  apart,  alone,  without  instruction, 
without  sympathy ;  not  enjoying  this  life,  nor  on  the  way 
to  enjoy  the  next.  The  marks  of  poverty  were  on  them 
too,  abundantly.  Diana's  mind  was  too  full  of  these  people 
to  allow  her  leisure  for  the  beauties  of  nature  ;  or  if  she 
felt  these,  to  let  her  feel  them  without  a  great  sense  of  con- 
trast. Then  she  did  not  know  whether  she  had  spoken 
wisely.  Alone  in  her  room  at  night  with  Basil  she  began 
to  talk  about  it.  She  wished  that  he  would  begin,  but  he 
did  not,  so  she  must. 

'  Basil, — did  I  say  too  much  to  Mr.  Brandt  to-day  ? ' 

'  I  guess  not.' 

Diana  knew  by  the  tone  of  these  words  that  her  hus- 
band was  on  this  subject  contented. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  the  mill  people  ? ' 

'  I  am  very  curious  to  find  out  what  impression  they 
make  on  you.' 

'  Basil,'  said  Diana,  her  voice  trembling,  '  they  break 
my  heart ! ' 

'  What's  to  be  done  in  that  case  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  Nothing  follows  upon  that.  But  how 
do  you  feel  ? ' 

'  Very  much  as  if  I  would  like  to  prove  the  realizing  of 
that  old  prophecy — "  To  whom  he  was  not  spoken  of,  they 
shall  see ;  and  they  that  have  not  heard  shall  under- 
stand." ' 


43^  DIANA. 

'  That  is  just  how  I  feel,  Basil.  But  they  do  not  go  to 
church,  people  say ;  how  could  you  get  at  them  ? ' 

'  We  could  look  them  up  at  their  own  homes  ;  we  could 
arrange  meetings  for  them  that  they,  would  like ;  we  could 
work  ourselves  into  their  affections,  by  degrees,  and  then 
the  door  would  be  open  for  us  to  bring  Christ  in.  We 
could  give  them  help  too,  where  help  is  needed.' 

'  We,  Basil  ?  ' 

'  Don't  you  feel  as  I  do?  You  said  so,'  he  answered 
with  a  grave  smile. 

'  O,  I  do  !  '  said  Diana.  '  I  cannot  think  of  anything 
lovelier  than  to  see  those  faces  change  with  the  knowledge 
of  Christ.' 

'  Then  you  would  be  willing  to  leave  our  present  field 
of  work  ? ' 

'  It  does  not  seem  to  want  us  as  this  does — not  by 
manyfold.' 

'  Would  your  mother  leave  Pleasant  Valley  ? ' 

'No.' 

'  How  then,  Di,  about  you  ? ' 

'  The  first  question  is  duty,  Basil.' 

'  I  think,  mine  is  to  come  here.' 

'Then  it  must  be  mine,'  said  Diana,  with  a  sort  of  dis- 
appointment upon  her  that  he  should  speak  in  that  way. 

'  And  would  it  be  your  pleasure  too  ?' 

'  Why  certainly.  Basil,  I  cannot  imagine  pleasure  to  be 
apart  from  duty.' 

'  Thank  you.'  he  said  gently.  '  And  I  thank  God,  who 
has  brought  you  so  far  in  your  lesson-learning,  as  to  know 
that.' 

Diana  said  no  more.  She  was  ready  to  cry,  with  the 
feeling  that  her  husband  thought  himself  to  have  so  little 
to  do  with  her  pleasure.  Tears  however  were  not  much 


BABYLON.  439 

in  her  way,  and  she  did  not  shed  any,  but  she  speculated. 
Had  he  really  to  do  with  her  pleasure  ?  It  was  different 
certainly  once.  She  had  craved  to  be  at  a  distance  from 
him  ;  she  could  remember  the  time  well ;  but  the  time  was 
past.  Was  it  reasonable  to  expect  him  to  know  that  fact  ? 
He  had  thoroughly  learned  the  bitter  truth  that  her  heart 
was  not  his  and  could  never  be  his  ;  what  should  tell  him 
that  the  conditions  of  things  were  changed.  Were  they 
changed  ?  Diana  was  in  great  confusion.  She  began  to 
think  she  did  not  know  herself.  She  did  not  hate  Mr. 
Masters  any  more  ;  nay,  she  declared  to  herself  she  never 
had  hated  him  ;  she  always  had  liked  him  ;  only  then  she 
had  loved  Evan  Knowlton,  and  now  that  was  gone.  She 
did  not  love  anybody.  There  was  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  Mr.  Masters  should  not  be  contented.  '  I  think,' 
said  Diana  to  herself,  '  I  give  him  enough  of  my  heart  to 
content  him.  I  wonder  what  would  content  him  ?  I  do  not 
care  two  straws  for  anybody  else  in  all  the  world.  He 
would  say,  if  I  told  him  that,  he  would  say  it  is  a  negative 
proposition.  Suppose  I  could  go  further ' — and  Diana's 
cheeks  began  to  burn, — '  suppose  I  could,  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly stand  up  and  tell  him  so.  I  cannot.  He  ought  to  see 
it  for  himself.  But  he  does  not.  He  ought  to  be  con 
tented — I  think  he  might  be  contented — with  what  I  give 
him,  if  it  isn't  just — ' 

Diana  broke  off  with  her  thoughts  very  much  disturbed. 
She  thought  she  did  not  love  her  husband,  but  things  were 
no  longer  clear ;  except  that  Basil's  persistent  ignorance 
of  the  fact  that  they  had  changed,  chafed  and  distressed 
her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE    PARTY. 

THE  morning  of  the  next  day  was  spent  in  still  further 
visits  to  still  more  mills.  Mr.  Brandt  was  much  struck 
with  the  direction  his  guests'  attention  seemed  to  take. 

'  You  are  very  fond  of  machinery ; '  he  remarked  to 
Diana. 

'  Yes — I  don't  know  much  about  it,'  she  answered. 

'  Surely  that  is  not  true  after  these  two  or  three  days' 
work  ? ' 

'  I  knew  nothing  about  it  before.  Yes,  I  do  enjoy  it, 
Mr.  Brandt,  with  you  and  Mr.  Masters  to  explain  things  to 
me  ;  but  it  is  the  people  that  interest  me  most.' 

'  The  people  !  '— 

1  The  mill  hands  ? '  Mrs.  Brandt  asked. 

'  Yes.     The  mill  hands.' 

'What  can  you  find  interesting  in  them?  I  am  half 
afraid  of  them,  for  my  part.' 

'They  look  as  if  they  wanted  friends  so  much.' 

'  Friends  ? '  repeated  Mrs.  Brandt.  '  I  suppose  they  have 
friends  among  themselves.  Why  should  not  they  ?  Well, 
it  is  time  you  ha-d  a  change  of  society,  I  think.  My  hus- 
band has  taken  you  among  the  mill  people  for  two  days  j 
now  to-night  I  will  introduce  you  to  a  different  set ;  some 
of  your  church  people.  I  want  you  to  take  rest  this  after- 
noon, my  dear  Mrs.  Masters,  now  wont  you  ! — so  as  to  be 


THE   PARTY.  44! 

able  to  enjoy  the  evening.  I  am  sure  Brandt  has  fatigued 
you  to  death.  I  never  can  stand  going  up  and  down  those 
stairs  in  the  mills,  and  standing  about ;  it  kills  me.' 

'  I  wonder  how  they  bear  standing  at  the  looms  or  the 
other  machines  all  day  ? ' 

'  They  ?  O  they  are  accustomed  to  it,  I  suppose.  An 
hour  or  two  of  it  breaks  me  down.  Now  rest,  will  you  ? 
It's  quite  a  great  occasion  to-night.  One  of  our  greatest 
men,  among  the  mill  owners,  and  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
church  you  and  Mr.  Masters  are  coming  to  take  care  of, 
gives  an  entertainment  to  his  daughter  to-night ;  a  bride — • 
married  lately — just  come  home  and  just  going  away  again. 
You'll  see  all  our  best  people.  Now  please  go  and  rest.' 

Diana  went  to  her  room  and  rested,  outwardly.  In  her 
mind  thoughts  were  very  busy.  And  when  it  was  time  to 
dress,  they  were  hardly  diverted  from  their  subjects.  It 
was  with  a  sort  of  unconscious  instinct,  that  Diana  threw 
her  beautiful  hair  into  the  wavy  masses  and  coils  which 
were  more  graceful  than  she  knew  and  crowned  her  so 
royally ;  and  in  the  like  manner  that  she  put  on  a  dress  of 
soft  white  muslin.  It  had  no  adornment  other  than  the 
lace  which  finished  it  at  throat  and  wrists  ;  she  looked  most 
like  a  bride  herself.  So  Basil  thought,  when  he  came  to 
fetch  her  ;  though  he  did  not  say  his  thought,  fearing  lest 
he  might  graze  something  in  her  mind  which  would  pain 
her.  He  often  withheld  words  for  such  a  reason. 

'  Will  it  do  ? '    said  Diana,  seeing  him  look  at  her. 

'  Too  good  for  the  occasion  ! '  said  Basil  shaking  his 
head. 

'  Too  much  dressed  ? '  said  Diana.  '  I  thought  I  must 
dress  as  much  as  I  could.  Is  it  too  much,  Basil  ? ' 

'  Nobody  else  will  think  so/  said  the  minister  with  a 
queer  smile. 


442  DIANA. 

'  Do  you  think  so  ?  ' 

'  You  are  just  as  you  ought  to  be.  All  the  same,  it  is 
beyond  the  company.  Never  mind.  Come  ! ' 

Down  stairs  another  sort  of  criticism. 

1  My  dear  Mrs.  Masters  !  Not  a  bit  of  colour  !  You  will 
be  taken  for  the  bride  yourself.  All  in  white,  except  your 
beautiful  hair  !  Wait,  that  won't  do  ;  let  me  try  if  I  can't 
improve  things  a  little — do  you  mind  ? — Just  let  me  see  how 
this  will  look.'  Diana  submitted  patiently,  and  Mrs.  Brandt 
officiously  fastened  a  knot  of  blue  ribband  in  her  bright  hair. 
She  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  effect,  which  Diana 
could  not  see.  However,  when  they  had  reached  the  house 
they  were  going  to,  and  leaving  the  dressing-room  Diana 
took  her  husband's  arm  to  go  down  to  the  company,  he  de- 
tained her  to  let  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brandt  pass  on  before  ;  and 
then  with  a  quick  and  quiet  touch  of  his  fingers  removed 
the  blue  bow  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

'  Basil ! '  said  Diana  smiling, — '  She  will  miss  it.' 

'  So  shall  I.     It  commonized  the  whole  thing.' 

There  was  nothing  common  left,  as  every  one  instantly 
recognized  who  saw  Diana  that  evening.  A  presence  of 
such  dignified  grace,  a  face  of  such  lofty  and  yet  innocent 
beauty,  so  sweet  a  movement  and  manner,  nobody  there 
knew  anything  like  it  in  Mainbridge.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  \vas  Diana's  first  experience  of  a  party  beyond  the  style  , 
and  degree  of  Pleasant  Valley  parties.  She  found  imme- 
diately that  she  was  by  much  the  plainest  dressed  woman 
in  the  company  ;  but  she  forgot  to  think  of  the  dresses,  the 
people  struck  her  with  so  much  surprise. 

Of  course  everybody  was  introduced  to  her ;  and  every- 
body said  the  same  things. 

They  hoped  she  liked  Mainbridge  ;  they  hoped  she  was 
coming  to  live  among  them  ;  Mr.  Masters  was  coming  to 


THE    PARTY.  443 

the  church,  wasn't  he  ?  and  how  did  he  like  the  looks  of 
the  place  ? 

'  You  see  the  best  part  of  the  church  here  to-night,'  re- 
marked one  stout  elderly  lady  in  a  black  silk  and  with 
flowers  in  her  cap  ;  a  very  well-to-do,  puffy  old  lady  ; — '  you 
see  just  the  best  of  them,  and  all  the  best ! ' 

'  What  do  you  call  the  best  part  of  a  church  ? '  Diana 
asked,  looking  round  the  room. 

'  Well,  you  see  them  before  you.  There  is  Mr.  Waters 
standing  by  the  piano — he's  the  wealthiest  man  in  Main- 
bridge  ;  a  very  wealthy  man.  The  one  with  his  head  a 
little  bald,  speaking  just  now  to  Mrs.  Brandt,  is  one  of  our 
elders  ;  he's  pretty  comfortable  too  ;  a  beautiful  place  he 
has,  have  you  seen  it  ?  No  ?  You  ought  to  have  gone  there 
to  see  his  flowers ;  the  grounds  are  beautiful,  laid  out  with 
so  much  taste.  But  if  you  are  fond  of  flowers,  you  should 
go  to  see  Mr.  Tillery's  greenhouses.  That  is  Mr.  Tillery 
in  the  corner,  between  the  two  young  ladies  in  white.  Mr. 
Tillery's  greenhouses  extend  half  a  mile,  or  would,  if  they 
were  set  in  a  line,  you  know/ 

'  Are  there  any  poor  people  in  the  church  ? ' 

'  Poor  people  ? '  The  article  called  for  seemed  to  be 
rare.  '  Poor  people  ?  There  are  a  few,  I  believe.  Not 
many ;  the  poor  people  go  to  the  mission  chapel.  O,  we 
support  a  mission  ;  that's  down  in  the  mill  quarter,  where 
the  hands  live,  I  mean ' 

'  And  oh,  Mrs.  Masters,'  a  young  lady  struck  in  here, 
'you  are  coming,  arn't  you?  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  you, 
and  I  want  you  to  come.  And  oh,  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
one  thing — is  Mr.  Masters  very  strict  ? ' 

'  About  what  ? '  said  Diana  smiling. 

'About  anything.' 

'  Yes  ;  he  is  very  strict  about  telling  the  truth.' 


444  DIANA. 

'  O,  of  course  !  but  I  mean  about  other  things ;  what  one 
may  do  or  mayn't  do.  Is  he  strict  ? ' 

'  Not  any  stricter  than  his  Master.' 

'  His  master  ?  who's  that  ?  But  I  mean, — does  he  make 
a  fuss  about  dancing  ? ' 

'  I  never  saw  Mr.  Masters  make  a  fuss  about  anything.' 

'  O  delightful !  then  he  don't  mind.  You  know,  Mrs. 
Masters,  the  Bible  says  David  danced.' 

'  The  Bible  tells  why  he  danced,  too,'  said  Diana, 
wholly  unable  to  keep  her  gravity. 

'Does  it?  I  don't  recollect.  And  oh,  Mrs.  Masters, 
I  want  to  know  another  thing  ;  does  Mr.  Masters  use  the 
Episcopal  form  in  marrying  people  ? ' 

'  You  are  concerned  in  the  question  ? ' 

'  O  yes.  I  might  be,  you  know,  one  of  these  days  ;  and 
I  always  think  the  Episcopal  form  is  so  dignified  and  grace- 
ful ;  the  ring  and  all  that ;  the  Presbyterian  form  is  so  tucky 
and  ugly.  O  Mrs.  Masters,  don't  you  like  a  form  for  every- 
thing ? ' 

Before  Diana  could  return  an  answer  to  this  somewhat 
comprehensive  question,  a  slight  sound  caused  her  to  forget 
both  question  and  speaker  and  the  place  where  she  was,  as 
utterly  as  if  they  all  had  been  swept  from  the  sphere  of  the 
actual.  It  belonged  to  the  sweet  poise  and  calm  of  her 
heart  and  life,  that  she  was  able  to  keep  still  as  she  was 
and  make  no  movement  and  give  no  sign.  The  sound  she 
had  heard  was  a  little  running  laugh ;  she  thought  it  came 
from  the  next  room  ;  yet  she  did  not  turn  her  head  to  look 
that  way,  though  it  could  have  been  uttered,  she  knew,  from 
no  throat  but  one.  The  young  lady  friend  reiterated  the 
question  in  which  she  was  interested,  and  Diana  answered; 
I  do  not  know  how,  nor  did  she  •  while  she  was  at  the  same 
time  collecting  her  forces  and  reviewing  them  for  the 


THE    PARTY.  445 

coming  skirmish  with  circumstances.  Evan  Knowlton  was 
here  at  Mainbriclge.  How  could  it  possibly  be  ?  And  even 
as  the  thought  went  through  her,  came  that  laugh  again. 

Diana's  mind  began  to  be  in  a  great  state  of  confusion, 
which  presently  concentred  itself  upon  the  one  point  of 
keeping  a  calm  and  unmoved  exterior.  And  to  her  sur- 
prise, this  became  easy.  The  confusion  subsided,  like  the 
vibrations  of  harp-strings  which  have  been  brushed  by  a 
harsh  hand  ;  only  her  heart  beat  a  little,  waiting  for  the 
coming  encounter. 

'  Shall  I  take  you  in  to  see  the  bride  ? '  Mr.  Brandt 
here  presented  himself,  offering  his  services.  And  Diana 
rose  without  hesitation  and  put  her  arm  in  his.  She  was 
glad,  however,  that  their  progress  through  the  company 
was  slow ;  she  hoped  Evan  would  see  before  he  had  to 
speak  to  her.  She  herself  felt  ready  for  anything. 

It  was.  with  a  strange  feeling  nevertheless  that  she 
went  through  the  introduction  to  the  pale  lady  of  fashion 
who  was  Evan's  second  choice.  Beyond  white  silk  and 
diamonds  and  a  rather  delicate  appearance,  Diana  could 
in  that  moment  discern  nothing.  Her  senses  did  not  seem 
to  serve  her  well.  The  lady  was  very  much  in  request  be- 
sides, amid  her  old  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  there 
was  no  chance  to  talk  to  her.  Then  followed  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  bridegroom.  He  was  going  to  content  himself 
with  a  bow,  but  Diana  stretched  out  her  hand  and  gave  his 
a  warm  grasp.  '  I  have  seen  Captain  Knowlton  before,' — 
she  said  simply.  She  was  perfectly  quiet  now,  but  she 
saw  that  he  was  not ;  and  that  he  was  willing  to  take 
refuge  with  other  claimants  upon  his  attention  to  escape 
any  particular  words  with  her.  She  stepped  back,  and  grad- 
ually got  behind  people,  where  the  sight  of  her  could  not 
distress  him.  It  had  distressed  him,  she  had  seen  that. 


446  DIANA. 

Was  it  on  her  account  ?  or  on  his  own  ?  Gradually,  watch- 
ing her  chances,  she  was  able  to  work  her  way  back  into 
the  other  room,  which  was  comparatively  empty  ;  and 
there  she  sat  down  at  a  table  covered  with  photographs. 
She  would  go  away,  she  thought,  as  soon  as  it  could  grace- 
fully be  done.  And  yet,  she  would  have  liked  to  speak  a  few 
words  with  Evan,  this  last  time  they  might  ever  be  together. 
What  made  him  embarrassed  in  meeting  her?  With  his 
bride  just  beside  him,  that  ought  not  to  be,  she  thought. 

The  company  had  almost  all  crowded  into  the  other  room 
about  the  bride,  and  were  fully  occupied  with  her ;  and 
Diana  was  alone.  She  turned  over  the  photographs  and 
reviewed  the  kings  and  queens  of  Europe,  with  no  sort  of 
intelligence  as  to  their  families  or  nationalities,  mechani- 
cally, just  to  cover  her  abstraction,  and  to  seem  to  be  do- 
ing something.  Then  suddenly  she  knew  that  Evan  was 
beside  her.  He  had  come  round  and  entered  by  the  door 
from  the  hall ;  and  now  they  both  stood  together  for  a  mo- 
ment, shielded  by  a  corner  of  the  partition  wall  between 
the  rooms.  Diana  had  risen. 

'  This  is  a  very  painful  meeting — '  Captain  Knowlton 
said,  after  a  silence  which  would  have  been  longer  if  he 
had  dared  to  let  it  be  so. 

'  No — '  said  Diana  looking  at  him  with  as  clear  and 
fair  a  brow  as  if  she  had  been  the  moon  goddess  whose 
name  she  bore ;  and  her  voice  was  very  sweet.  '  Not 
painful,  Evan  ;  why  should  it  be  ?  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
again.' 

'  I  didn't  know  you  were  here — '  he  went  on  hurriedly, 
in  evident  great  perturbation. 

'  And  we  did  not  know  you  were  here.  I  had  no  no- 
tion of  it — till  I  heard  your  voice  in  the  next  room.  I 
knew  it  instantly.' 


THE    PARTY.  447 

'  I  would  have  spared  you  this,  if  I  could  have  foreseen 
it.' 

'  Spared  me  what  ? ' 

'  All  this, — this  pain, — I  know  it  must  be  pain  to  you. 
— I  did  not  anticipate  it.' 

'  Why  should  it  be  pain  to  me  ? '  inquired  Diana  steadily. 

'  I  know  your  feeling — I  would  not  have  brought  Clara 
into  your  presence — ' 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  have  seen  her,'  said  Diana  in  the 
same  quiet  way,  looking  at  Evan  fixedly.  '  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  see  more  of  her,  and  learn  to  know  her.  I 
could  scarcely  speak  to  her  for  the  crowd  around.' 

'  Yes,  she  is  a  great  favourite,  and  everybody  is  eager 
to  see  her  before  she  goes.' 

'  You  are  going  away  soon  ? ' 

1 0  yes  ! — to  my  post.' 

'  I  hope  she  will  make  you  happy,  Evan,'  Diana  said 
gently  and  cordially. 

'  You  are  very  good,  I  am  sure.  I  don't  want  you  to 
think,  Diana,  that  I — that  I,  in  fact,  have  forgotten  any- 
thing— ' 

'  You  cannot  forget  too  soon,'  she  answered  smiling, 
( everything  that  Clara  would  not  wish  you  to  remember.' 

'  A  fellow  is  so  awfully  lonely  out  there  on  the  fron- 
tiers— '  he  said  mumbling  his  words  through  his  moustache 
in  a  peculiar  way. 

'  You  will  not  be  lonely  now,  I  hope.' 

'  You  see,  Di,'  you  were  lost  to  me.  If  I  could  only 
think  of  you  as  happy — ' 

'  You  may.' 

'Happy?'  he  repeated,  looking  at  her.  He  had 
avoided  her  eyes  until  now. 

( Yes.' 


448  DIANA. 

'  Then  you  have  forgotten  ? ' 

'  One  does  not  forget,'  said  Diana,  with  again  a  grave 
smile.  '  But  I  have  ceased  to  look  back  sorrowfully.' 

'  But — you  are  married ' 

Then  light  flushed  into  Diana's  face.  She  understood 
Evan's  allusion. 

'  Yes,'  she  said, — '  to  somebody  who  has  my  whole 
heart.' 

'  But — you  are  married  to  Mr.  Masters  ? ' — he  went  on 
incredulously. 

'  Certainly.  And  I  love  my  husband  with  all  the  strength 
there  is  in  me  to  love.  I  hope  your  wife  will  love  you  as 
well,'  she  added  with  another  smile,  a  different  one,  which 
was  exceedingly  aggravating  to  the  young  man.  No 
other  lips  could  wreathe  so  with  such  a  mingling  of  softness 
and  strength,  love,  and — yes,  happiness.  Captain  Knowl- 
ton  had  seen  smiles  like  that  upon  those  lips  once,  long 
ago,  never  a  brighter  or  more  confident  one.  He  felt 
unaccountably  injured. 

'  You  did  not  speak  so  when  I  saw  you  last,'  he  re- 
marked. 

'  No.  I  was  a  fool,'  said  Diana  with  somewhat  unrea- 
sonable perverseness.  '  Or,  if  I  was  not  a  fool,  I  was  weak.' 

'  I  see  you  are  strong  now,'  said  the  young  officer  bit- 
terly. '  I  was  never  strong;  and  lam  weak  still.  I  have 
not  forgotten,  Diana.' 

'  You  ought  to  forget,  Evan,'  she  said  gently. 

'  It's  impossible ! '  said  he,  hastily  turning  over  photo- 
graphs on  the  table. 

Diana  would  have  answered,  but  the  opportunity  was 
gone.  Other  people  came  near ;  the  two  fell  apart  from 
each  other,  and  no  more  words  were  interchanged  between 
them. 


THE   PARTY.  449 

It  grieved  but  did  not  astonish  Basil  to  perceive  when 
he  joined  Diana  in  their  own  room  that  night,  that  she  had 
been  weeping;  and  it  only  grieved  him  to  know  that  the 
weeping  was  renewed  in  the  night.  He  gave  no  sign  that 
he  knew  it,  and  Diana  thought  he  was  asleep  through  it  all. 
Tears  were  by  no  means  a  favourite  indulgence  with  her  • 
this  night  the  spring  of  them  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
unsealed,  and  they  flowed  fast  and  free  and  were  not  to 
be  checked.  Neither  did  Diana  quite  clearly  know  what 
moved  them.  She  was  very  sorry  for  Evan  ;  yes,  but  these 
tears  she  was  shedding  were  not  painful  tears.  It  came 
home  to  her,  all  the  sorrowful  waiting  months  and  years 
that  Basil  had  endured  on  her  account ;  but  sympathy  was 
not  a  spring  large  enough  to  supply  such  a  flow.  She  was 
glad  those  months  were  ended ;  yet  they  were  not  ended, 
for  Basil  did  not  know  the  facts  she  had  stated  with  so 
much  clearness  tohiswhilome  rival ;  she  had  not  told  him- 
self, and  he  did  not  guess  them.  '  He  might,'  said  Diana 
to  herself, — '  he  ought ' —  at  the  same  time  she  knew  now 
there  was  something  for  her  to  do.  How  she  should  do 
it,  she  did  not  know. 

29 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


THEY  returned  to  Pleasant  Valley  that  day,  and  Basil 
was  immediately  plunged  in  arrears  of  business.  For  the 
present  Diana  had  to  attend  to  her  mother,  whose  con- 
versation was  anything  but  agreeable  after  she  learned  that 
her  son-in-law  had  accepted  the  call  to  Mainbridge. 

'  Ministers  are  made  of  stuff  very  like  common  people, 
she  declared.  '  Every  one  goes  where  he  can  get  the  most.' 

'  You  know  Mr.  Masters  has  plenty  already,  mother ; 
plenty  of  his  own.' 

'  Those  that  have  most  already  are  always  the  ones  that 
want  more.  I've  seen  that  a  thousand  times.  If  a  man's 
property  lies  in  an  onion,  he'll  likely  give  you  half  of  it 
if  you  want  it ;  if  he's  got  all  Pleasant  Valley,  the  odds  are 
he  won't  give  you  an  onion.' 

Diana  would  have  turned  the  conversation,  but  Mrs. 
Starling  came  back  to  the  subject. 

'  What  do  you  suppose  you  are  going  to  do  with  me  ? ' 

'  Mother,  that  is  for  you  to  choose.  You  know,  where- 
ever  we  are,  there's  a  home  for  you  if  you  will  have  it.' 

'  It's  a  pleasure  to  your  husband  to  have  me  too,  ain't 
it?' 

'  It  is  always  a  pleasure  to  him  to  do  what  is  right.' 

'  Complimentary  !  You  have  grown  very  fond  of  him, 
haven't  you  ?  all  of  a  sudden.' 

But  this  subject  Diana  would  not  touch.     Not  to  her 


AT    ONE.  451 

mother  Not  to  any  one,  till  the  person  most  concerned 
knew  the  truth ;  and  most  certainly  after  that  not  to  any 
one  else.  Evan  had  been  told ;  there  had  been  a  reason  ; 
she  was  glad  she  had  told  him. 

'  What  do  you  suppose  I'd  do  in  Mainbridge  ? '  Mrs. 
Starling  went  on. 

'  There  is  plenty  to  do,  mother.  It  is  because  there  is 
so  much  to  do,  that  we  are  going.' 

'  Dressing  and  giving  parties.  I  always  knew  your  hus- 
band held  himself  above  our  folks.  He'll  be  suited  there.' 

This  tried  Diana,  it  was  so  very  far  from  the  truth.  She 
fled  the  field.  It  was  often  the  safest  way.  But  she  was 
very  sorry  for  her  mother.  She  went  to  Basil's  study, 
where  now  no  one  was,  and  sat  down  by  the  window  that 
looked  into  the  garden.  There  Rosy  presently  caught 
sight  of  her ;  came  to  her,  and  climbed  up  into  her  lap  ; 
and  for  a  good  while  the  two  entertained  one  another  ;  the 
child  going  on  in  wandering  sweet  prattle,  while  the 
mother's  thoughts,  though  she  answered  her,  kept  a  deeper 
current  of  their  own  all  the  while.  She  was  pondering  as 
she  sat  there  and  smelled  the  roses  in  the  garden  and  talked 
to  the  small  Rose  in  her  lap,  she  was  pondering  what  she 
should  do  to  let  her  husband  know  what  she  now  knew 
about  herself.  One  would  say,  the  simplest  way  would  be, 
to  tell  him !  but  Diana,  with  all  her  simplicity  and  sweet- 
ness, had  a  New  England  nature  ;  and  though  she  could 
speak  frankly  enough  when  spoken  to,  on  this  or  any  other 
subject,  she  shrank  from  volunteering  revelations  that  were 
not  expected  of  her  ;  revelations  that  were  so  intimate  and 
belonged  to  her  very  inner  self ;  and  that  concerned  be- 
sides so  vitally  her  relations  with  another  person,  even 
though  that  person  were  her  husband.  At  the  mere  thought 
of  doing  it,  the  colour  stirred  uneasily  in  Diana's  face 


452  DIANA. 

Why  could  not  Basil  divine  ?  Looking  out  into  the  garden, 
both  mother  and  child,  and  talking  very  busily  one  of  them, 
thinking  very  busily  the  other,  neither  of  them  heard  Basil 
come  in. 

'  Where's  papa  ? '  Rosy  was  at  the  moment  asking,  in 
a  tone  sufficiently  indicating  that  in  her  view  of  things  he 
had  been  gone  long  enough. 

'  Not  very  far  off — '  was  the  answer,  close  behind  them. 
Rosy  started  and  threw  herself  round  towards  her  father, 
and  Diana  also  started  and  looked  up  ;  and  in  her  face  not 
less  than  in  the  little  one  there  was  a  flash  and  a  flush  of 
sudden  pleasure.  Basil  stooped  to  put  his  lips  to  Rosy's, 
and  then,  reading  more  than  he  knew  in  Diana's  eyes,  he 
carried  the  kiss  to  her  lips  also.  It  was  many  a  day  since 
he  had  done  the  like,  and  Diana's  face  flushed  more  and 
more.  But  Basil  had  taken  up  Rosy  into  his  arms  and  was 
interchanging  a  whole  harvest  of  caresses  with  her.  Diana 
turned  her  looks  towards  the  garden  and  felt  ready  to  burst 
into  tears.  Could  it  be  that  he  was  proud,  and  intended 
to  revenge  upon  her  the  long  avoidance  to  which  in  days 
past  she  had  treated  him  ?  Not  like  what  she  knew  of 
Mr.  Masters,  and  Diana  was  aware  she  was  unreasonable  ; 
but  it  was  sore  and  impatient  at  her  heart  and  she  wanted 
to  be  in  Rosy's  place.  And  Basil  the  while  was  thinking, 
whether  by  his  unwonted  caress  he  had  grieved  or  dis- 
tressed his  wife  !  He  touched  her  shoulder  gently  and  said, 
'  Forgive  me ! ' 

'  Forgive  you  what  ? '  said  Diana  looking  round. 

'  My  taking  an  indulgence,  that  perhaps  I  should  not 
have  taken.' 

'  You  are  very  much  mistaken,  Basil,'  said  Diana  rising  ; 
and  her  voice  trembled  and  her  lips  quivered.  She  thought 
he  was  rather  cruel  now. 


AT    ONE.  453 

'  But  I  have  troubled  you  ? '  he  said  looking  earnestly  at 
her. 

Diana  hesitated  and  the  quiver  of  her  lips  grew  more 
uncontrollable.  '  Not  in  the  way  you  think,'  she  an- 
swered. 

'  How  then  ? '  he  asked  gently.  '  But  I  have  troubled 
you.  How,  Di  ? ' 

The  last  two  words  were  spoken  with  a  very  tender, 
gentle  accentuation,  and  they  broke  Diana  down.  She  laid 
one  hand  on  her  husband's  arm  and  the  other,  with  her 
face  in  it,  on  his  shoulder,  and  burst  into  tears. 

I  do  not  know  what  there  is  in  the  telegraphy  of  touch 
and  look  and  tone  ;  but  something  in  the  grip  of  Diana's 
hand  and  in  her  action  altogether,  wrought  a  sudden  change 
in  BasiFand  brought  a  great  revelation.  He  put  his  little 
girl  down  out  of  his  arms  and  took  his  wife  in  them.  And 
for  minutes  there  was  no  word  spoken  ;  and  Rosy  was  too 
much  astonished  at  the  strange  motionless  hush  they  main- 
tained to  resent  at  first  her  own  dispossession  and  the  great 
slight  which  had  been  done  her. 

There  had  come  a  honey  bee  into  the  room,  by  mistake, 
and  not  finding  there  what  he  expected  to  find,  he  was  fly- 
ing about  and  about,  trying  in  vain  to  make  his  way  to 
something  more  in  his  line  than  books  ;  and  the  soft  buzz 
of  the  creature  was  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  ;  till  Rosy 
began  to  complain.  She  did  not  know  what  to  make  of 
the  utter  stillness  of  the  two  figures  beside  her,  who  stood 
like  statues  ;  was  furthermore  not  a  little  jealous  of  see- 
ing what  she  considered  her  own  prerogative  usurped  by 
another  ;  and  finally  began  an  importunate  petitioning  to 
be  taken  up  again.  But  Rosy's  voice,  never  neglected  be- 
fore, was  not  heard  to-day.  Neither  of  them  heard  it. 
The  consciousness  that  was  nearest  was  overpowering,  and 
barred  out  every  other. 


454  DIANA. 

'  Diana — '  said  Basil  at  last  in  a  whisper,  and  she  looked 
up,  all  flushed  and  trembling,  and  did  not  meet  his  eyes. 
Neither  did  she  take  her  hand  from  his  shoulder  ;  they  had 
not  changed  their  position. 

'  Diana, — what  are  you  going  to  say  to  me  ? ' 

'  Haven't  I  said  it  ? '  she  answered  with  a  moment's 
glance  and  smile ;  and  then  between  smiles  and  tears  her 
head  sank  again. 

'  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  before  ? '  he  said  with  a 
breath  that  was  almost  a  sob,  and  at  the  same  time  had  a 
somewhat  imperative  accent  of  demand  in  it. 

'  I  did  not  know  myself.' 

'  And  now — ? ' 

'  Now — ? '  repeated  Diana  half  laughing. 

'  Yes,  now  ;  what  have  you  got  to  tell  me  ? ' 

'  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  you  know  already? ' 

'  You  have  told  me  nothing,  and  I  do  not  feel  that  I 
know  anything  till  you  have  told  me,'  he  said  in  a  lighter 
tone.  '  Hallo,  Rosy  ! — what's  the  matter  ? ' 

For  Rosy,  seeing  herself  entirely  to  all  appearance 
supplanted,  had  now  broken  out  into  open  lamentations,  too 
heartfelt  to  be  longer  disregarded.  Diana  gently  released 
herself  and  stooped  down  and  took  the  child  up,  perhaps 
glad  of  a  diversion ;  but  Rosy  instantly  stretched  out  her 
arms  imploringly  to  go  to  her  father. 

'  I  was  jealous  of  her,  a  little  while  ago,'  Diana  re- 
marked as  the  exchange  was  made. 

But  at  that  wrord,  Basil  set  the  child,  scarcely  in  his 
arms,  out  of  them  again  on  the  floor ;  and  folding  Diana 
in  them  anew,  paid  her  some  of  the  long  arrear  of  caresses 
so  many  a  day  withheld.  Ay,  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
known  he  might  without  distressing  her  ;  and  no  doubt  lips 
can  do  no  more  silently  to  reveal  a  passion  of  affection, 


AT   ONE.  455 

than  these  did  then.  If  Basil  had  had  a  revelation  made 
to  him,  perhaps  so  did  Diana  ;  but  I  hardly  think  Diana 
was  surprised.  She  knew  something  of  the  depths 
and  the  contained  strength  in  her  husband's  character ; 
but  it  is  safe  to  say,  she  would  never  be  jealous  of  Rosy 
again  !  Not  anything  like  these  demonstrations  had  ever 
fallen  to  Rosy's  share. 

Anything  meanwhile  prettier  than  Diana's  face  it  would 
be  difficult  to  see.  Flushing  like  a  girl,  her  lips  wreathing 
with  smiles,  tear  drops  hanging  on  the  eyelashes  still,  but 
with  flashes  and  sparkles  coming  and  going  in  the  usually 
quiet  grey  eyes.  Dispossessed  Rosy  on  the  floor  mean- 
while looked  on  in  astonishment  so  great  that  she  even 
forgot  to  protest.  Basil  looked  down  at  her  at  last  and 
laughed. 

'  Rosy  has  had  a  lesson,'  he  said  picking  her  up.  '  She 
will  know  her  place  henceforth.  Come,  Di, — sit  down  and 
talk  to  me.  How  came  this  about  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  Basil,'  said  Diana  meekly. 

'  Where  did  it  begin  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  that  either.  O  begin  ? — I  think  the  be- 
ginning was  very  long  ago,  when  I  learned  to  honour  you 
so  thoroughly.' 

'  Honour  is  very  cold  work ;  don't  talk  to  me  about 
honour,'  said  Basil.  '  I  have  fed  and  supped  on  honour, 
and  felt  very  empty  ! ' 

'  Well — you  have  had  it — '  said  Diana  contentedly. 

'  Go  on.     When  did  it  change  into  something  else  ?  ' 

'  It  has  not  changed — '  said  Diana  mischievously. 

'  When  did  you  begin  to  give  me  something  better  ? ' 

'  Do  you  know,  Basil,  I  cannot  tell  ?  I  was  not  conscious 
myself  of  what  was  going  on  in  me.: 

'  When  ? ' 


456  DIANA. 

'  Perhaps — since  soon  after  I  came  home  from  Clifton. 
It  had  not  begun  then  ;  how  soon  it  began  after,  I  cannot 
tell.  It  was  so  gradual.' 

'  When  did  you  discover  a  change  ? ' 

'  I  felt  it — I  hardly  discovered  it — a  good  while  ago,  I 
think.  But  I  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  it  was.  I 
wished, — Basil,  it  is  very  odd  ! ' — and  the  colour  rose  in 
Diana's  cheeks, — '  I  wished,  that  I  could  love  you.' 

The  minister  smiled,  and  there  was  a  suspicious  drop  in 
his  eyes,  which  I  think  to  hide,  he  stooped  and  kissed  Rosy. 

'  Go  on.     When  did  you  come  to  a  better  understand- 


in: 


'  I  don't  think  I  recognized  it,  until — I  told  mother  not 
a  great  while  ago,  that  I  cared  for  nobody  in  the  world  but 
you  ;  but  that  was  different ;  I  meant  something  different ; 
I  do  not  think  I  recognized  it  fully,  until — you  will  think 
me  very  strange, — until  I  saw — Evan  Knowlton.' 

'And  then  ? '  said  Basil  with  a  quick  look  at  his  wife. 
Diana's  eyes  were  dreamily  going  out  of  the  window,  and 
her  lips  wore  the  rare  smile  which  had  vexed  Evan,  and 
which  he  himself  had  never  seen  on  them  before  that  day. 

'  Then — he  ventured  to  remind  me  that — once — it  was 
not  true/ 

'What?'  said  Basil  laughing.  'Your  mother  makes 
very  confused  statements,  Rosy  ? ' 

'  He  was  mortified,  I  think,  that  I  did  not  seem  to  feel 
more  at  seeing  him  ;  and  then  he  dared  to  remind  me  that 
I  had  married  a  man  I  did  not — '  Diana  left  the  word  un- 
spoken. 

'And  then  ? ' 

'  Then  I  knew  all  of  a  sudden  that  he  was  mistaken  ; 
that  if  it  had  been  true  once,  it  was  true  no  longer.  I  told 
him  so.' 


AT    ONE.  457 

'  Told  him  ! '  echoed  her  husband. 

1 1  told  him.     He  will  make  that  mistake  no  more.' 

'  Then  pray  why  did  you  not  tell  the  person  most  con- 
cerned ? ' 

'  I  could  not.  I  thought  you  must  find  it  out  of  your- 
self.' 

'  How  did  he  take  your  communication  ? ' 

'  Basil — human  nature  is  a  very  strange  thing  !  I  think, 
do  you  know,  I  think  he  was  sorry  ? ' 

'  Poor  fellow  ! '  said  Basil. 

'  Can  you  understand  it  ? ' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  can.' 

'  You  may  say  '  poor  fellow  ! ' — but  I  was  displeased 
with  him.  He  had  no  right  to  care  ;  at  least,  to  be  anything 
but  glad.  It  was  wrong.  He  had  no  right.1 

'  No  ;  but  you  have  fought  a  fight,  my  child,  which  few 
fight  and  come  off  with  victory.' 

'  It  was  not  I,  Basil,'  said  Diana  softly.  '  It  was  the 
power  that  bade  the  sea  be  still.  /  never  could  have  con- 
quered. Never.' 

'  Let  us  thank  Him  ! ' 

'  And  it  was  you  that  led  me  to  trust  in  him,  Basil.  You 
told  rne,  that  anything  I  trusted  Christ  to  do  for  me,  he 
would  do  it ;  and  I  saw  how  you  lived,  and  I  believed  first 
because  you  believed.' 

Basil  was  silent.  His  face  was  very  grave  and  very 
sweet. 

'  I  am  rather  disappointed  in  Evan,'  said  Diana  after  a 
pause.  '  I  shall  always  feel  an  interest  in  him  ;  but,  do  you 
know,  Basil,  he  seems  to  me  weak  ? ' 

'  I  knew  that  a  long  while  ago.' 

'  I  knew  it  two  years  ago — but  I  would  not  recognize 
it.'  Then  leaving  her  place  she  knelt  down  beside  her  hus- 


45  8  DIANA. 

band  and  laid  her  head  on  his  breast.  '  O  Basil, — if  I  can 
ever  make  up  to  you — ! ' 

'  Hush ! '  said  he.  '  We  will  go  and  make  things  up  to 
those  mill  workers  in  Mainbridge.' 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Diana  spoke  again  ; 
spoke  slowly. 

'  Do  you  know,  Basil,  the  mill  owners  in  Mainbridge 
seemed  to  me  to  want  something  done  for  them,  quite  as 
much  as  the  mill  workers  ? ' 

'  I  make  the  charge  of  that  over  to  you.' 

'  Me  ! '  said  Diana. 

'  Why  not  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  for  them  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  think  they  need  ? ' 

'  Basil,  they  do  not  seem  to  me  to  have  the  least  idea — 
not  an  idea, — of  what  true  religion  is.' 

'  They  would  be  very  much  astonished  to  hear  you  say  so.' 

'  But  is  it  not  true  ? ' 

'  You  would  find  every  wealthy  community  more  or  less 
like  Mainbridge.' 

'  Would  I  ?     That  does  not  alter  the  case,  Basil.' 

(  No.  Do  you  think  things  are  different  here  in  Pleas- 
ant Valley  ? ' 

Diana  pondered.  '  I  think  they  do  not  seem  the  same,' 
she  said.  '  People  at  least  would  not  be  shocked  if  you 
told  them  here  what  Christian  living  is.  And  there  are 
some  who  know  it  by  experience.' 

'  No  doubt,  so  there  are  in  the  Mainbridge  church  ; 
though  it  may  be  we  shall  find  them  most  among  the  poor 
people.' 

'  But  what  is  it  you  want  me  to  do,  Basil  ? ' 

'  Shew  them  what  a  life  lived  for  Christ  is.  We  will 
both  show  them  ;  but  in  my  case  people  lay  it  off  largely  on 


AT    ONE.  459 

the  bond  of  my  profession.  Then,  when  we  have  shewn 
them  for  awhile  what  it  is,  we  can  speak  of  it  with  some 
hope  of  being  understood. ' 


'  Has  anything  special  come  to  the  dominie  ? '  Mrs. 
Starling  asked  that  evening,  when  after  prayers  the  minis- 
ter had  gone  to  his  study. 

'  Why,  mother  ? ' 

'  He  seems  to  have  a  great  deal  of  thanksgiving  on  his 
mind ! ' 

'  That's  nothing  very  uncommon  in  him,'  said  Diana 
smiling. 

'  What's  happened  to  you  ? '  inquired  her  mother  next, 
eyeing  her  daughter  with  curious  eyes. 

'  Why  do  you  ask  ? ' 

'I  don't  do  things  commonly  without  a  reason.  When 
folks  roll  their  words  out  like  butter,  I  like  to  know  what's 
to  pay.' 

'  I  cannot  imagine  what  manner  of  speech  that  can  be, 
said  Diana,  amused. 

'Well — it  was  your'n  just  now.  And  it  was  your  hus- 
band's half  an  hour  ago.' 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Diana,  gravely  now,  '  that  when  peo- 
ple feel  happy,  it  makes  their  speech  flow  smoothly. 

'  And  you  feel  happy  ? '  said  Mrs.  Starling  with  a  look 
as  sharp  as  an  arrow. 

'  Yes,  mother.     I  do.' 

'What  about?' 

Diana  hesitated,  and  then  answered  with  a  kind  of 
sweet  solemnity, — '  All  earth,  and  all  heaven.' 

Mrs.  Starling  was  silenced  for  a  minute. 

'  By  "  all  earth  "  I  suppose  you  mean  me  to  understand 
things  in  the  future  ? ' 


460  DIANA. 

'  And  things  in  the  past.  Everything  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  me,  mother,  has  turned  out  for  good.' 

Mrs.  Starling  looked  at  her  daughter,  and  saw  that  she 
meant  it. 

'The  ways  o'  the  world,'  she  muttered  scornfully,  '  are 
too  queer  for  anything  ! '  But  Diana  let  the  imputation  lie. 


They  went  to  Mainbridge.  Not  Mrs.  Starling,  but  the 
others.  And  you  may  think  of  them  as  happy,  with  both 
hands  full  of  work.  They  live  in  a  house  just  a  little  bit  out 
of  the  town,  where  there  is  plenty  of  ground  for  gardens, 
and  the  air  is  not  poisoned  with  smoke  or  vapour.  Roses 
and  honeysuckles  flourish  as  well  here  as  in  Pleasant  Val- 
ley ;  laburnums  are  here  too,  dropping  fresh  gold  every 
year  ;  and  there  are  banks  of  violets  and  beds  of  lilies,  and 
in  the  spring  time  crocuses  and  primroses  and  hyacinths  and 
snowdrops  ;  and  chrysanthemums  and  asters  and  all  sorts 
of  splendours  and  sweetnesses  in  the  fall.  For  even  Diana's 
flowers  are  not  for  herself  alone,  nor  even  for  her  children 
alone,  whose  special  pleasure  in  connection  with  them  is 
to  make  nosegays  for  sick  and  poor  people  and  to  cultivate 
garden  plots  in  order  to  have  the  more  to  give  away.  And 
not  Diana's  roses  and  honeysuckles  are  sweeter  than  the 
fragrance  of  her  life  which  goes  through  all  Mainbridge. 
Rich  and  poor  look  to  that  house  as  a  point  of  light  and 
centre  of  strength ;  to  the  poor  it  is  besides  a  treasury  of 
comfort.  There  is  no  telling  the  change  that  has  been 
wrought  already  in  the  place.  It  is  as  Basil  meant  it 
should  be  and  knew  it  would  be.  It  is  as  it  always  is  : 
when  the  box  is  broken  at  Christ's  feet,  the  house  is  filled 
with  the  odour  of  the  ointment. 

THE  END. 


•illllf   t 

L  006  678  832  4 

)NIVER%       ^VOSANGElfj^ 


